A Few Good Fonts
by WRTRD
Summary: Because they discussed fonts—really, fonts—long before they chose their Save the Date card. A series of standalone, unrelated chapters, covering a wide time period and with a variety of ratings. The first one, rated M, takes place during the book party in 2x05, "When the Bough Breaks." Also, because a few people have asked: yes, every font mentioned in these chapters is real.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **I don't actually know what font was used in _Heat Wave_, so I exercised writer's prerogative and chose one.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

What she had had before was just the galley, the advance copy of _Heat Wave_. She's still fuming that she hadn't gotten it ahead of everyone else, since she's the one it's based on and she's the one who has had to endure Richard Castle and all his 14-karat inappropriateness for months on end. He crowds her all the time. He breathes down her neck, reads over her shoulder, bounces around in the car seat next to her. The man is human Velcro, for God's sake. So now here she is with the real thing. It feels so different in her hand. It's not the raised lettering on the cover, although she likes that tactile change, it's the heft. In hardback, with a dust jacket, it feels so much more substantial. Real. Even though it's fiction—well, almost. That sex scene is definitely completely fictitious. Oh, the crap she's already having to put up with over that. She could kill him, except that she doesn't want to spend the rest of her life behind bars. Among other things, she'd never get to wear a dress like _this_ one again. Oh, yeah, Castle, like she doesn't see him giving her the eye from the other side of the room. Yup, here he comes, looking cocky as ever, right on schedule, four, three, two, one.

"Hey," he says. Why does she have to be wearing that wet dream of a dress in public? He can see more than a suggestion of her perfect breasts, which means that every other man here can, too. Oh, he'd like to see more than a suggestion, but only when it's just the two of them. The two of them, him and Beckett, not the two of them, her breasts. Well, them, too. Shit, she has him flustered. He was going to say something devastatingly debonair, but when he reached her he was reduced to a pathetic, monosyllabic "hey."

That's all he says. "Hey." Why couldn't he have said something else? He's thrown her off and she needs to recover, quickly. She'll flip through the book and think what to do. Okay, got it. She stops to run her free hand over a page. "Hmmm. This is a bit of a surprise." She's not going to look directly at him, especially at that scruff that really does scream sex and is getting harder and harder not to hear, even over the din of her heartbeat. What is it with her heart, anyway? It sounds like a pneumatic drill, and it's going way too fast. Maybe she needs to see a cardiologist. Okay, flip a few more pages. "Hmmm."

"Hmmm, Beckett? That's all you have to say?"

"Oh, I have more to say."

"Are you going to enlighten me? I am the author after all. Of the book you're caressing." Good one, that'll get her.

"Caressing? Pfff. I was just examining the font."

"The font? You're interested in the font?"

"It's a Garamond, isn't it? A very old one, sixteenth-century French? This looks like one of the early adaptations. You know how I love French…things."

Beckett knows about fonts? How is this possible? He may have to take a cold shower, but unfortunately there's none available here. Maybe he could dump that bucket of ice over his head, and parts south. "Yes, yes, it is. You're right. Garamond. I do like a good serif."

"A good serif?" She gives him her best inquisitional look. "Did you choose this font? I'd have thought that was the designer's job."

"Well, yes, ordinarily, but I wanted my input for Nikki."

Input? He had to have done that deliberately, except that he seems a little off his rhythm right now. She hopes so, anyway, now that she has found hers. "Isn't Braggadocio more your style, Castle? Even though it's sans-serif. The letters are so full. Thick. Confident. And the name, braggadocio. It would have been so appropriate, you know, so… self-referential." Oh, she's plenty confident herself at the moment. She looks him unwaveringly in the eye.

"I just changed my mind, Beckett. I might love sans-serif now."

She doesn't know how it happened, but he has his hand wrapped delectably around her elbow, with just the right amount of pressure to send a little frisson through her. Huh, frisson. Yes, her brain is buzzing with all sorts of French things.

He felt that little shiver of hers, right under his hand, no denying it. He's going to press his case a little, and start steering her away from the crowd. He moves his mouth closer to her ear, that gorgeous ear with the gorgeous earring hanging so gorgeously from it. "It sounds incredibly sexy when you say it. Sans-serif: without a stroke." Time to go to his best whisper. "Although I'm really, really fond of strokes. Don't think I could give them up, could you? You can't possibly say no unless you've experienced my stroking."

Oh, God, that did it. Her knees nearly buckled. And she's very, very warm. Warm and, she blushes to admit it to herself, wet. Wait, is she actually blushing? Can Castle see her blushing? And are they out on the corridor now? Her eyes don't seem to be working properly. Focussing. "Uh, Castle, are we going somewhere? Shouldn't you stay here with your, you know, admirers?"

It's all he can do not to kiss every inch of her newly flushed skin right there in the corridor, but he sees the door just a few feet ahead. The door to the private dressing room that he has for this event. The event originally being the book launch but now, he's praying, a launch of a totally different kind—a launch of them. He manages to extract the key card from his pocket, open the door on the first try, and guide them both inside. "Well, Beckett, I'm very much hoping that you're one of my admirers. I'm hoping that we're establishing a mutual admiration society, just the two of us."

He shuts the door and they both react to the click with a start, breaths shallower, pupils dilated. A click as an aphrodisiac? Who knew? Castle turns Beckett into his arms and moves her up against the wall. Amazingly, she is still holding a copy of _Heat Wave_.

"Are you reading that?"

"Not really. But since the author is here, it seems rude not to." She presses her hips forward. "Shall we?"

"Read?"

"Yes."

"Any part in particular?"

"How about page 105? I remember your mentioning it last week." She raises the book slightly and turns it so that they can both see it. "Now that I look carefully, I can see that this is a very sexy font."

He leans in and begins to kiss her with unrestrained passion, his tongue running across her lips for only a moment before she parts hers. She lets the book fall to the floor. And though she's as far gone as he is, she eventually draws back and rests her forehead on his. She's speaking seductively: "'Their kisses were deep and urgent, familiar all at once, her tongue finding the depth and sweetness of his open mouth while he explored hers'."

"You recited that, Kate! You memorized page 105?" Technically he's holding her up, but he's grateful that she's strong, since he could keel over at any moment.

"I might have. Do you remember what comes next? "'One of his hands reached for her blouse but hesitated.' But I'm not wearing a blouse."

"I can see that," he says, reaching out to the front of her dress.

"'She clutched it, and placed in on her breast'." And so she did, taking his hand and placing it directly over one of her partially exposed breasts with a very taut nipple.

He isn't one for lingering, certainly not now. Lingering can come later. He plans to peel that dress off as fast as he can. "Going off script now, Kate," he says, reaching behind her and undoing the zipper, then pushing the dress off her shoulders and all the way down her body, finally helping her to step out of it. He gasps. "You have nothing on! You had nothing on underneath there! Thank God I didn't know that while we were in the other room."

"Didn't want to ruin the line, Castle. No VPL, no VBL, just me." She moves her hand from his shoulder, which she had gripped while she was getting out of the dress, to his belt, undoing it and whipping it through the loops. She quickly unzips his pants, and as she reaches in and grabs him, coos in his ear. "I'm doing just what Nikki did. Are you going to groan like Rook, Castle? Is this what you were imagining as you were writing this at your desk? Were you," she begins massaging him, "using this font?"

He moans, all right. He might be moaning even louder and more lustfully than his fictional counterpart had in the confines of his writer's brain. Even as Kate is working him up, he's toeing off his shoes and getting the rest of his clothes off.

They're virtually one slippery skin now, her back against the wall, her nails digging into his back, and they both feel as if they're about to explode. "I'm sopping," she says.

"I'm leaking," he says. "Fuck the foreplay."

"No, fuck me, Castle."

She has one leg already curled around the back of his calf, and together they move it to his waist. She gives a little hop so that her other leg joins the first, and she's wrapped tightly around him. He's trying to take it moderately slowly, but she's so ready for him, and they're both so eager, that he enters her in one quick, spectacular thrust.

"Jesus, Castle."

"Sorry, sorry, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm perfect, you're perfect, we're perfect. I cannot believe how fantastic you feel. And you'll feel even more fantastic—" she gives him a little slap on his perfect ass—"when you start moving."

With each thrust and response, they grow impossibly more aroused. They're alternating between plundering each other's mouths and watching their bodies come together and slide apart in varying tempos: slow, a little faster, very slowly, and finally so fast that Beckett bites him on the shoulder to keep from screaming. She is contracting around him with such force that he's afraid he might drop her, but the sensation is so spectacular that he drives into her even harder until he climaxes every bit as forcefully as she had. Bending his knees, he brings them both to the floor, lying on his back and pulling her on top of him.

Beckett is the first to come to her senses, licking a trickle of sweat from his throat and then kissing the spot. "You know what?"

"What?"

"That's one hell of a font."

"Thank God." He draws her up his body and kisses her. "Because your review is the only one I care about."

**A/N **That's it for chapter 1. More chapters (and fonts) will follow eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **This chapter takes place in no particular episode of no particular season. A very pregnant Kate is missing her caffeine. Rated K+

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Beckett is shuffling groggily toward the kitchen and sees Castle standing at the counter, sipping from a mug. He's got his phone in the other hand and he's reading something so intently and cheerfully that he hasn't registered her approach. It's 7 a.m. and look how perky he is. Perky, like percolate. Percolate like coffee. Coffee like she hasn't had for months. Many, many, many, many months. Pretty effing perky, yeah, effing, has to watch her language now that there's going to be a baby around soon. Not soon enough.

She yawns noisily. "Morning, Castle."

He looks up from his phone and beams, pulls her into a hug and gives her a kiss. "Morning, Kate. How are you feeling?"

"What have I told you about kissing me when you have coffee on your lips? And your tongue?"

He decides not to mention that he had repeatedly offered to drink tea, right along with her, for the duration of her pregnancy, but that she had insisted that he stick with coffee. "Sorry, can't help it, you look so kissable."

"I look like an elephant."

"Elephants are beautiful, Kate. Besides, you love them, they're your favorite animal."

"Not right now, they're not. Not while I look like one."

"Think of it this way. If you really were an elephant, you'd be pregnant for twenty-two months and you'd have to deliver a 200-pound baby. Doesn't that make you feel better?"

"Is that your sunshine thought for the day, Castle? Because it's not working."

"Okay, well, speaking of working, or not working, how about this? Since it's your first day of maternity leave and you don't have to go to the precinct, why don't I make you your favorite breakfast?"

"You can't."

"Why not?"

"Because my favorite breakfast begins with coffee, has coffee in the middle, and coffee at the end."

"True, but I can make you the rest of your favorite breakfast. Scrambled eggs with truffles, and a baguette from Balthazar which I went out and got half an hour ago while you were getting your beauty sleep."

"My elephant sleep."

"Your elephant sleep. Have your tea."

She pushes the stool far enough away from the counter to accommodate her enormous, elephantine girth, sits down and sighs before taking her first swallow of tea. It's actually delicious, but it's no substitute for a latte. She watches Castle as he whisks the eggs in a bowl. Look at those muscles in his forearm. They're rippling. And twitching. He might have the sexiest arms on the planet. Not to mention his hands, and his fingers, especially those fingers. Why is she having these thoughts right now? These-verging-on X-rated thoughts when she is so huge and lumbering and unsexy? She'll concentrate on the frying pan, where the eggs are bubbling.

"That smells divine, Castle."

"You deserve nothing short of divine, soon-to-be-mother of our soon-to-be child." He puts a plate of eggs, dotted with bits of aromatic truffles, in front of her, and turns to get the baguette.

"You're right. I'm not an elephant. I'm a tub of lard."

"Nope. Lard is rendered fat from the belly of a pig, and you are most definitely not a pig. Even though pigs are cute and can find truffles. You're butter, rich smooth butter, which is what I'm spreading on your baguette right now, see?" He holds up the slice of French bread before dropping it on her plate with a flourish. "There you are, my buttercup."

"Butterball."

"Butterball."

"Wait, you're agreeing with me? You think I'm a butterball?

He comes around the counter, stands behind her and wraps his arm around her belly. "Nope, just repeating what you said. Now you can repeat what I'm saying. I love you."

"I love you."

"Good." He plops down on the adjacent stool. "Now, I'm going to sit next to you here and we'll both eat our buttery breakfast. Maybe we can discuss baby names again, before the baby gets here and we have to leave the space on the birth certificate blank because we haven't decided."

"I know what I want for a boy."

"Really?" He sits up straight. He's excited. This is progress. This is huge. "What?"

"Since I really am an elephant?" She grins goofily at him. "Dumbo."

"Do I get to choose the middle name then?"

"Of course."

"Cosmo. Dumbo Cosmo."

"Keep talking, bud."

"I was thinking of walking, instead."

"Where? I'm not dressed for walking and neither are you."

"That's the point. Where we're going to walk we don't need to be dressed, shouldn't be dressed. Your mention of 'tub' a few minutes ago made me think how much I'd like to take a bath with you." He picks up her hand, pulls two of her fingers into his mouth and sucks them suggestively. "Yum. Butter. Time to clean up, Kate. C'mon."

He gets her to her feet and puts one hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the loft. When they get to the bathroom, he turns the water on full blast—the sooner they're in the tub, the better—and adds a healthy squirt of pomegranate bath oil, which is her current favorite. He hears her taking off her robe and hanging it up, and turns around to look at her. "Wow, Kate. Where did you get that T shirt and why haven't you worn it before?"

She looks down at the jersey that's pulled tight across her and carries the legend—more like the request, the demand—COFFEE STRAIGHT UP. "Banana Republic, yesterday. The only size they had in stock."

"Ooooh, it's perfect. Look at the word 'coffee' stretched across your chest. I never knew I could love the look of the word as much as I do right now. Those letters, so delectable."

"What do you think the font is, Castle? I asked the sales clerk, no clue."

"It might be Passion One."

"You're making that up. You've got passion on the brain."

"First, I'm not making it up. There really is a font called Passion One and it looks a lot like that. But second, true, I've got passion on the brain."

"You just like that my boobs are so big now, filling out those passionate letters."

"I always love your boobs, Kate, no matter what the size."

She walks over to the edge of the tub, where he has perched to test the temperature of the water and to turn off the taps. She sits on his lap and gives him a sizzling look. "What about the rest of the T shirt, the part that says 'straight up'?"

"Um, that looks great, too."

She wriggles suggestively against him. "I think that it looks like you."

"Really?" That came out as a squeak, when he'd been aiming for seduction. "How's that?"

"Because from where I'm sitting, I can tell that a very important part of you, my Passion One, is straight up."

"Oh, God, Kate, let's get in the tub. I have big plans."

"Me, too. Emphasis on 'big'." She reaches down to pull off her shirt, but he puts his hand over hers to stop her.

"Leave that on."

"Leave it on? Isn't the point to get naked?"

"Bear with me, we will definitely get naked." He helps her up and into the tub before taking off his own T shirt and boxers. But instead of getting behind her, as he usually does, he goes to the front of the tub, turns around and sits facing her.

"Stretch your legs out toward me, Kate." She does, and he takes hold of both her ankles, drawing her down until the water reaches her neck, then sliding her back to a sitting position. "Ahhhh, yes!" His face is split with a grin.

"What are you doing, Castle?"

"I wanted to get you part way into the water and then back up to get us started."

"Why?"

"Because, believe me. This is going to be the best wet T shirt contest. Ever."

**A/N:** End of chapter 2. More to follow eventually! Thank you for the reviews, follows and favorites; I appreciate every one of them.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** This chapter takes place during 2x11, "The Fifth Bullet," and is rated M.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

"Let me get this straight, Castle," Beckett says, standing at the murder board that is currently dedicated to the late gallery owner Victor Fink, who had taken two in the back, presumably in the name of art. "There's a guy downstairs who might be a witness, but we can't get any information from him because he was mugged and has amnesia. And you think this is cool?"

"No, I said I think it's _cooler_. I already loved this case because a bullet is missing—five shells at the scene, but only four bullets accounted for. That's cool. But we find this young, well-spoken guy who doesn't know his name or ZIP code, never mind what he had for breakfast? He remembers bupkis? He has amnesia, Beckett, a real case of amnesia, which is way cooler than a missing bullet." Castle is almost levitating with excitement. "You know what? I'm going to go over and introduce myself."

Beckett is caught between a grin and a glare. "Why is that, Castle, you trying to jog his memory? See if he recognizes you from Page Six?"

"Say what you will, Detective, you cannot dampen my enthusiasm. Rain on my parade. Toss me into the drink."

"Fine, go, before you shower me with any more watery clichés." She's trying to mask her own enthusiasm for his behavior. The thing is, there's something adorable and sexy about his irrepressibility, but it's dangerous for her to have these thoughts, very dangerous. Especially at work.

Castle's excitement has gone from high to lunar. It turns out that the mugging victim/potential witness has been unknowingly carrying important evidence on his person: the missing projectile is lodged in the thick paperback that he had in his coat pocket. There was an entry wound—a hole from bullet number five in the cover—but no exit. The book? _Storm Fall_, the final novel in Castle's Derrick Storm series, in which the CIA agent breathes his last.

While Ryan interviews the victim/witness, Castle races back to Beckett. He's winding down, or up, to his conclusion. "So Derrick has been killed twice!" he tells her, punching the air. "First by me and then by an assailant as yet unidentified. But by extension Derrick and I also saved that guy's life, literally and literately. Literaturely. I thought amnesia was cool, but this? Wow."

"I don't know, Castle. I think it would have been more appropriate if the shooter had hit a copy of _In a Hail of Bullets_ instead," Beckett says, not sure if this will lessen his excitement or increase it.

Two days later, they wrap up the case. The amnesia victim now knows his name, Jeremy Prestwick, and why he was at the gallery at the time of the murder—in which he played no part—and is on the way to getting back together with his ex-wife. The killer, who had been the gallery owner's assistant, is behind bars. All is well. Ryan and Esposito have left for the day, and Beckett is finishing some paperwork. Castle is sitting in his chair by her desk, playing with and rearranging everything within reach.

She suspects that he's loitering with intent. "Castle, since you're obviously not going to help me with these forms that I'm filling in, why are you still here?" she asks, smacking his hand lightly as he takes her Scotch tape dispenser apart for the third time. "You can go home."

He waits a minute before responding. "I was just wondering, Beckett."

"Aha! I knew it! You want something, don't you? Spit it out."

"I was wondering if I could have the copy of _Storm Fall_ that was in Jeremy's pocket?"

"You can't be serious. It's evidence."

"Not really. I mean, you don't need it to prove that that scum George Heller is the killer. He murdered Victor Fink, not the book. The bullets that Lanie fished out of him are the only ones that matter, right? This is important to me, Beckett. It's an artifact. It's in my personal hall of fame. I want to put it in a shadow box in my office at home."

He's so earnest that she hates having to tell him no. "Look, Castle, you can't have it now, but I'll make sure that you get it as soon as the trial's over."

He looks crestfallen. "But that could be years, Beckett."

"Tell you what. I'll try to get the wheels of justice moving a little more quickly for you." He still looks crushed, and she has an idea. "How about we go out for a drink? We can celebrate the fact that your book saved Jeremy Prestwick's life. I'm buying." Now he looks happy. Happy and something else—optimistic, maybe, or expectant. And maybe she's feeling like that, too, as she gathers up her things.

"Where are we going?" Castle asks a few minutes later as they ride down in the creaky elevator.

"I know you like cop bars, Castle, but I've kind of had my fill of them at the moment. Do you mind if we go somewhere different? There's a little place near me that's great. Quiet but not dead, you know? Very '20s looking, you'll like that."

"Sure. Good. Sounds good."

It's raining and chilly, and because it's theater-time rush, there are no cabs. They run for the subway, which spits them out a block from the bar, one of the last vestiges of Little Italy. It's down a flight of stairs, and all but invisible from the street. Castle takes to the slightly murky place the minute he walks in. Lucky Luciano would have felt at home here.

"Hey, Kate!" the bartender calls out and waves her over. "Zup? Where you goin'? You always sit here and bend my ear."

"More like you bend mine, Mike," Beckett says. "My, uh, partner and I are going to sit in the booth over there instead."

"Your partner, huh? It's about time! No wonder you ain't been here in a while."

"No, no, no. He's my _work_ partner, Mike, work. This is Richard Castle. Castle, this is Mike DeVito, best bartender in New York."

Castle extends his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mike. Your ear is safe tonight. I'm going to let Kate bend mine." Beckett scowls unconvincingly and walks to the booth ahead of him so that neither he nor Mike can see her mouth moving decidedly upward.

They're working on their drinks, chatting aimlessly. It's nice, Beckett thinks. Really nice, the two of them. She could get used to this. Her phone chirps and she tears open her bag, thinking it might be the precinct. It's her father, she'll call him back. But she had opened the bag too quickly, and half the contents have spilled out, including a brand-new copy of _Storm Fall_. Oh, shit.

"Beckett! What's this?" Castle siezes the book and holds it up like a trophy. "You've got _Storm Fall_ with you?"

Truth, she figures, really is the best defense. "I've never read it. Guess I figured I owed it to you now, what with Jeremy."

"Not possible. You've read all my books. Knew it from the day we met."

"Not this one."

"You dragged me out of an incredible rooftop book party the day it was published. How can you not have read it?"

Now she's embarrassed, and she stares into her nearly empty glass. Oh, the hell with it. "I couldn't. I knew that Derrick died at the end and I couldn't bear it."

Castle sits up, eyes sparkling. "Why, Kate Beckett. You're sentimental. I can't believe it. But you're reading it now? What do you think?"

"I haven't gotten very far. It looks—it looks funny."

"Funny? You think it looks funny?"

"It's the font. All your other books, even _Heat Wave_, use the same font, but not this one. It's tripping me up, I keep stopping to look at it, wondering why."

"Whoa, you noticed the different font?"

"I'm a detective. I'm supposed to notice that it's American Typewriter." She bites her lip.

"Beckett! You're a font geek! You knew this font was American Typewriter! How have you hidden this from me?"

"Oh, that list is very long, Castle, very long. There are so many things that you don't know." She buries her face in her glass as if there were something she could extract from it besides fumes.

True, Castle thinks, there are so many. Though one thing that he has known for more than a while is that he has fallen in love with her—even before he made this stunning and wonderful discovery that she has a thing for typography. He sneaks his hand closer to hers.

"Do you know why I chose it?"

"What, American Typewriter?"

"Yeah." He moves his hand a little closer still. "I love that font. I love that on the page it looks like a letter that someone wrote in 1877. It was my way of saying goodbye. Goodbye to the way I used to write—on a typewriter, not a computer—and goodbye to Derrick."

She looks up with a smile that he hasn't seen on her before, and she finds that her face is a little nearer to his than she had realized. "That's really sweet, Castle. It's touching."

And then it's they who are touching. Castle has wrapped his little finger around hers, and picked it up from the table. He pulls her hand toward him as he tilts forward and gently kisses her on the lips. "Beckett? Kate?"

"Yes?" she says, surprised to hear herself whispering.

"Would it be okay with you if we went somewhere else?"

She swallows, hard. "My place? It's right around the corner."

They're both so calm as they walk the one hundred twenty-seven steps—yes, they're both counting, in their heads—to her building, their little fingers joined and their shoulders bumping. It's so familiar. She doesn't even have butterflies, and he's not making the terrible jokes that nervousness provokes. There is a comfortable, serene inevitability about their walking up a flight of stairs to her apartment, going in, and hanging their jackets on the antique coat rack that she'd found in a junk store before gentrification swallowed it up. And with no discussion, they walk into her bedroom.

They haven't said a word since they left the bar. Now, standing face to face, they begin slowly to undress each other, he unbuttoning her blouse and she, his shirt, each letting the fabric drag gently across the skin. Without breaking eye contact, they kick off their shoes, take off each other's pants, and, like a synchronized team in some unknown sport, put their clothes neatly on the seat of a chair. It's not until they're down to their underwear that either looks at the other's body.

"Will you do the rest for me, Kate?" Castle asks softly. "I want to watch you, I want to see you."

"No touching," she says. Calmness has shifted seamlessly to control. Not him controlling her, or vice versa, but undeclared, understood, shared control. To draw this out, to elevate desire, to perfect anticipation. Their bodies are quivering. She undoes the clasp in the front of her silvery, lace-trimmed bra with her right hand, then pushes the straps off her shoulders. Just before letting go she murmurs, "Catch it, Castle," and he does. She runs the tips of her index fingers along the top of the matching bikinis until they are just below her hipbones, then stretches the fabric slightly outward, and pulls the panties slowly down her legs. "Now you," she says, looking up at him.

He's grateful that the underwear gods had directed him this morning to a pair of plain but elegant Sea Island cotton boxers rather than to a pair dedicated to superheroes or intergalactic warfare. "No touching," he says, repeating her words and her movements of a moment ago. He runs his fingertips slowly around his waistband, then simultaneously rids himself of his boxers and releases his erection.

"May I breathe now?" Beckett asks. "May I touch?"

"May I?" Castle answers.

They start at the same spot, each putting a hand softly on the other's lips, feathering it along the jaw, around the ear, down the neck to the collar bones. As they move their hands lightly across arms and chests, it's as if they're doing a mirror dance. Were they mind readers—and they might be—they'd know that they were sharing a thought. Each was sure that this moment would eventually come, but neither had believed that it would be remotely like this. Frantic, wild, needy, messy, frenzied, but not this. This isn't lightning, this is fireworks in a bottle, and they haven't even moved yet. Haven't even kissed, really.

The surprise is that Beckett is the first to break, clutching his head between her palms and plunging her tongue into his mouth. Castle is so taken aback that his arms shoot out to the sides, and then he's kissing her, exploring her just as she is him: advance and retreat, nip and lick, push and pull, ask and answer. They fall onto the bed together, hands and mouths everywhere. They roll, they gasp; he's on top, she's on top. Finally, as is pounding into her and her heels are digging into the small of his back, she moans like a creature possessed, and so does he. He takes her, she takes him, and their bodies melt into each other. It's a long time before their heart rates return to normal—or maybe accelerated respiration and racing pulses are the new normal.

It's no surprise, though, that Castle is the first to speak. "That was amazing, how we started. This whole thing is amazing, but the touching?"

Beckett rolls directly on top of him. She's giddy. No other word for it. "You know what that was, Castle? That was touch typing."

And then it starts. The laughing, the giggling, the howling, the talking. And more sex. More incredible sex.

"We really have to thank Christopher Sholes for this," the ecstatically exhausted Castle says later into Beckett's mane, the very model of sex hair.

"Who's he?"

"The inventor of the typewriter. The holder of the first patent. American Typewriter is based on his typeface."

And it slips right out of her mouth, uncensored, unfiltered. "Good, we'll name our first boy after him."

**A/N:** That's the end of chapter 3. There will be more fonts ahead. Thanks so much for coming along for the ride.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** This chapter takes place during 2x24, "A Deadly Game," and contains a few lines of dialogue from that episode, which are shown in italics. Rated K+.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Castle had just arrived at the precinct and was strolling to his chair when he saw Demming, that arrogant prick from robbery, goo-gooing with Beckett. It was stomach-turning. What does she see in that nit, anyway? He decides to made a little crack about inappropriate behavior, just to annoy Schlemming.

Good, it worked: Detective Pain-in-the-Ass left. But before Castle has a chance to exult, he has to pull back. Things aren't so great, after all: Beckett is storming, storming and stomping. And she's brandishing something, too. At least it's not a weapon, but it might as well be: it's a piece of paper, one of those pink phone-message slips. She comes to a stop right in front of him.

_"__Your ex-wife called. She said that you've been avoiding her because you're late delivering your manuscript of _Naked Heat_. That's a catchy title. When were you gonna tell me?"_

_"__Well, I was waiting for the perfect time. It just never happened."_

_"__She's naked on the cover again, isn't she?"_

_"__Kind of, yeah."_

Her face is a shade paler than usual, which is never, ever a good sign, and far worse than when her face is red. She's wearing seriously high, killer heels today, so she's eye-to-eye with him when she jabs the tip of her index finger into his brand-new, very expensive shirt. "I'm not your secretary, Castle, got it?" Jab. "I'm not your messenger girl or your minion," jab, "not your go-between or your hireling, not your flunky or your amanuensis." Jab. "I'm neither your scribe nor your vassal." Jab. "Have you any idea what I will do to you if Gina calls me again to deliver a message to you?"

That was an impressive list. He's contemplating, as he massages what could turn into a bruise in the center of his chest, how long she could have kept going if Esposito and Ryan hadn't materialized at her elbow. "No, I—"

"That was a rhetorical question, Castle. Don't answer it." She slaps the sticky pink slip onto the front of his impeccable shirt, leaving it to flutter crookedly like a child's drawing posted on the fridge, and stalks out.

As he watches her leave, both horrified and fascinated by how much anger her retreating shoulders can convey, he remembers how she reacted a year ago when she found the cover art for _Heat Rises_ on his website. Oh, she was ticked, sincerely burning, because her alter ego, Nikki, was naked, despite his assurances that the strategically placed gun obscured her nakedness. Which was BS, as they both knew.

"Castle."

"Dude."

Neither form of address was radiating kindliness. The boys, arms crossed across their chests, were staring him down.

"What?"

"Beckett doesn't look happy. She doesn't sound happy, either." Ryan says. "She's not happy, we're not happy."

"What he said, bro. You'd better go make things right with her."

"But it was Gina—"

"We don't want to hear your lame excuses, man. Just take care of it."

Okay, he knew it wasn't just Gina. It was _Naked Heat_. He shouldn't have waited. Crap. He needed to find Beckett and explain. Man up, apologize, take the, well, the heat. He sighs, shakes his head and heads for the elevator.

On the ground floor, he stops at the desk. "Sarge?"

"Yeah?"

"You seen Beckett?"

"Yup."

"Did you notice the time?"

"Yup."

"Did she leave just now?"

"Yup"

God, this guy is a hard-ass. He can kiss that autographed book for his wife goodbye. "Do you know which direction she went?"

"Yup."

Gotta pose a question that's not yes-no, or yup-nope. "Left? Right? Across the street?"

"Left."

He considers going to the right, on the off chance that… Nah. Out on the sidewalk, he tries to recall every out-of-the-way coffee place within walking distance. He settles on what he thinks of as The Bent Spoon, a grubby joint where the coffee is strong enough to warp the cutlery. That had to be it: when she was pissed off, she punished herself with super-high-octane coffee, the stuff that really kept the edge on.

It took him only five minutes to get there and to spy Beckett hunched over a cup of coffee in the dimmest reaches of the dim interior. Good thing they didn't spring for higher-wattage lighting, or you'd see the roaches carrying off the packets of sugar. He slips into the seat opposite his partner.

"Beckett?"

She looks up just enough to give him a withering look. "What do you want, Castle?"

"I want to say I'm sorry. You're right, I should have told you, and I was going to tell you. I apologize, sincerely. I mean it. But also, I want to tell you that it's not all bad."

"Really? Not all bad? I have a question for you. How can Nikki be 'kind of' naked? You're naked or you're not naked. Naked is absolute. So I'll have to put up with that for several more months, won't I?"

He has the grace to hang his head. "I thought maybe everyone had gotten it out of their systems with the first book."

"What? Think about it. Say you're a cop at the Twelfth, and you see this cover, this _art_, this kind of naked woman who clearly is someone's ludicrous idea of the unclothed me, in the window every time you walk by the Barnes &amp; Noble ten blocks from here. You're not going to tell me that you and your partner aren't going to have to comment on it, every single day? Not just at the window, but when you see me? Especially when you see me."

"You're right. I see your point. Really, I do." He puts his hand over his heart. "I swear I do."

Her eyes soften a little.

"There's something else I wanted to tell you, though, about the book."

It's her turn to drop her head, only hers in her hands. "Oh, God, don't tell me. A sex scene. A way-more-explicit sex scene."

"Nope. I'm not saying there's no sex there, Beckett. I'm just." He stops. There's freighted silence.

She's looking right at him and she's pretty sure—no, positive—that he's about to say something. Something what? Something important.

"Kate, I wanted this to be a surprise. But here goes. I know that you're a typography nut and I am, too. It's a funny thing to share. I like it. But the new book? I asked for—actually, insisted on, over Gina's objections—a different font for _Naked Heat_."

"She objected? Why?"

"I said it was a deal-breaker."

"The _font_?"

"Well, she insisted on knowing why and I had to tell her. It was personal."

"It was? Why?"

"Because the font is called Mona Lisa. And I told her that it was ideal for Nikki, meaning it's perfect for you. Enigmatic. Gorgeous. A masterpiece. Just like you."

Her face is transformed. Her entire face is a smile. "Oh, Castle. You mean it?"

**A/N:** That's the end of chapter 4. Keep your eye peeled for future fonts. Thanks for all your typographical support!


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N** This chapter takes place between 2x01, "Deep in Death," and 2x02, "The Double Down," and is rated K+.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Kate Beckett is sitting gloomily at her desk, the only person in the otherwise empty bullpen. It's late, it's lonely, and it's so quiet that she can hear herself think, which is not a happy thought. She should go home. The problem is, the same situation applies there: it's late, it's lonely, and so quiet that she'll be able to hear herself think. Thinking is the last thing she wants to do, because she is too ashamed to think.

She moves her eyes to the spot by her desk where Castle had stood a few minutes ago. It's as though he has left an afterimage: he's gone, but he's here. Earlier in the day she had told him, in essence, to get out and never come back. But come back he had, not to annoy or to pressure her, but to apologize for having looked into her mother's case, for having overstepped a line that's less drawn in the sand than incised in her soul. She can still see him there, so contrite, so hurt, so sincere in his regret. She had curtly acknowledged it, had conveyed her forgiveness by saying simply, "I'll see you tomorrow." That was all. It was the thinnest olive branch on record, complete with the world's smallest bud, but when he left he had looked back at her with a tiny, radiant smile. It was clearly enough for him.

But now she's gnawing on her lip, and guilt is gnawing at her gut. It wasn't enough, it isn't enough. The man deserves more from her. He may have been wrong, but so had she. God almighty, she had accused him of having opened the case for himself, as if it were a perverse form of self-aggrandizement. He really was trying to help, and he almost certainly has. She looks again at the place where he had stood, at the unsettling afterimage—hallucination? hologram? living ghost? She extends her hand to the cuff of his blue shirt, which is peeking out from the cuff of his blue jacket, both of which are, though she's trying not to notice, the same startling blue as his eyes. "Castle? I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry." But the afterimage dissolves and she's holding nothing but air.

Sitting happily in his office at home, celebratory Scotch in hand, Castle replays in his mind for at least the twentieth time the last four words that Beckett had said to him today. "I'll see you tomorrow." That such a simple sentence—not a preposition, conjunction, adverb, or adjective in sight—could change everything seems a miracle. At 8:15 p.m. he had been devoid of hope; at 8:16 he was suffused with it. He was back! He'd said he was sorry and that was enough for her. But as he swirls two ice cubes around the bottom of his glass, he begins to worry. Saying that he was sorry wasn't enough. She might have been fine with it, but he's not. She deserves more from him. He needs to make amends in an important way. Not a big gesture, because she hates that. She'd drop kick his ass to the Costco parking lot in Queens if he did some splashy, public thing. No, this is going to require some thought, real thought. He'll sleep on it. "Night, Beckett," he says as he gets into bed, wishing that he weren't talking to himself.

Beckett had intended to bridge the gap between the depressing precinct and her depressing apartment with a stop at a bar, something to cheer her up and on. But one look at all those buzzy, buzzing drinkers and she was right back on the street, pushing herself home. Pulling her clothes off as soon as she's inside the door, she changes into leggings and an antediluvian T shirt, and reopens a bottle of wine that had been left unattended a little too long. She grimaces at the taste. What the hell, she doesn't deserve any better. She deserves worse. She should go to the liquor store across the street and buy some Mad Dog or Thunderbird. On second thought, maybe this past-its-imbibe-by-date California white is sufficiently swill-like. Besides, now she really does have to think how to make it up to Castle. He'd like a grand gesture, and she could force herself to do it, but this needs to be between the two of them. Something really intimate. _Really intimate_? Holy shit, where did that come from? Anyway, it has to be right. Maybe something will come to her in her sleep. She falls into bed. "Night, Castle," she says, wishing that he were here.

It's only six in the morning, an hour that Castle ordinarily finds acceptable only if it comes with a dead body attached. But today is different. Today he leaps out of bed like a five-year-old on his birthday, runs into his office, turns on his computer, executes a quick search and sends an email. He claps his hands together, actually shouts "Eureka!" and is halfway to the kitchen before he realizes that he's stark naked just an open staircase away from his mother and daughter.

It's already six in the morning, a time that ordinarily finds her in the shower after a 45-minute yoga session. But today is different. Today she is already showered, made up, dressed, fully—okay, partially—caffeinated and on the way to work. She's happy, almost giddy, because an hour before she had had a Eureka! moment. She knows what she's going to do for Castle, and she's so effervescent that she stops at a bakery and buys two dozen cinnamon rolls without knowing why.

She drops the cinnamon rolls on a table in the break room, not remembering having bought them. She makes an espresso at the magical machine that Castle had had installed, the only machine that she has ever fallen in love with, and not just because it makes sensational coffee. Stop it. Don't hold that thought. Oh, do hold that thought. Wow, it's so warm in here; maybe she should undo another button. Couldn't hurt.

Nursing the coffee at her desk, she wonders if her paperwork has ever been this boring? Time is wearing lead running shoes, and they're tied together. Where is Castle, anyway? She could use the diversion. They're not working on a case, but he looked so excited last night that she had assumed that he'd be here first thing, two coffees in hand. The boys have been here for a while.

"Beckett?"

"Yes, Espo."

"You got ants in your pants?"

"Excuse me, what?"

"Ants. In your pants. You've stood up like ten times in the last half hour. You're as bad as Castle. Did you catch ADD from him or what?"

"My pants are completely ants-free, thank you." She sits back down, hard, though not before absent-mindedly running her hands over the bottom of her pants. "I just have things on my mind." She gives him a look that he interprets correctly as "end of conversation."

At 9:59 she walks to the rear hallway, where she makes a quick call on her cell, and at 10:01 she returns, smiling. Dull as her paperwork is, she is actively praying for no body drop between now and noon.

At 10:01 on Water Street in lower Manhattan, in the oldest part of town, Castle walks into a small shop. He loves everything about this place, the look, the smell. He and the owner go back a long way, to the day _In a Hail of Bullets_ hit the best-seller list and the very young author decided to treat himself to something appropriate to a newly-minted Man of Letters. Castle doesn't come here very often, but he's always happy when he does.

"Good to see you, Rick," the owner says, stepping out from behind a handsome wooden counter to shake hands. "I'm looking forward to that new book of yours."

Castle gives a little bow. "A copy will be delivered to you in two weeks."

"Thanks. You always remember. So, on to your order." He returns to the other side of the counter and picks up a piece of paper and a small block of wood. "When I got your email, I put my best guy on it, right away. He has almost all of them anyway, as it turns out, so I wanted you to see one, make sure it's what you want."

Castle holds it in his hand, turns it around, runs his fingers over it and returns it to his friend. "Oh, yes. This is fantastic."

"We'll have it for you by late this afternoon, all right?"

"Great doing business with you," Castle says. He steps out into the September sun and decides that the day is pretty much ideal.

Shortly after noon, the beginning of a lunch break that she tends to take at her desk, Beckett gets off the subway at Wall Street and makes her way east to a small shop that she has loved forever. Loves the smell of it, the look, everything. She opens the door and sees the proprietor near the back. "Hello, Mr. Sturgess? We've never met, but I've come here many times." She extends her hand. "I'm Kate Beckett. We talked on the phone a little while ago."

"Nice to meet you, Ms. Beckett. You look familiar; I'm sure I've seen you here before. I always like having a name to go with a face."

"Thank you. I'm so happy you have what I'm looking for. It's for someone—well, someone to whom I'm indebted."

"Let me show you, then," he says, guiding her to a cabinet of long, shallow drawers, one of which he opens. "Here it is."

"Oh, that's even better than I'd hoped," Beckett says, touching her fingers lightly on the display. "Could I take it with me?"

"Sure. I can box it up the way you wanted, if you can give me about ten minutes?"

"Of course, thank you."

True to his word, he hands Kate a box, with its lid tilted up, ten minutes later. "Are the quoins the way you'd like them?"

"Oh, yes. Perfect. The whole thing is perfect." She hands him the credit card, and he gives the box to the clerk to wrap. When she goes out and looks at the cloudless sky, she decides that it's pretty much an ideal day.

Just after she returns to the precinct, the box now safely stowed in her locker, her phone pings with a text from Castle. He wants to know when she'll be leaving, assuming a new case doesn't take her away.

"Fiveish. You coming in?"

"Can't, meeting. Can I take you for a drink 5? A thank you for letting me come back."

"Sure. Sounds nice." She's relaxed, and she's not. She's going to make things right, and that's scary as all hell. Somehow she'll manage to make it 'til five.

Somehow he'll make it 'til five. He futilely attempts to write, and at 4:00 on the dot he's downtown in the shop.

His friend has everything ready. "I'm guessing that this is for someone important? A special occasion?"

"Oh, yeah. Yes. Yes to both."

The shopowner hands Castle a box, its lid tilted up, so that he can make sure everything is as he wanted. "It's perfect," Castle says, handing over his credit card. "The whole thing is perfect." With the box tucked neatly into a bag, he leaves the store a happy man and heads uptown, hoping that he'll be even happier an hour from now.

She's a wreck. She feels like she's going on a first date. Oh, that. Oh, maybe it is a first date? It's almost five, and she's in the ladies room, touching up her make up just a little. The box is in the bag at her feet. She had texted Castle that she'd meet him downstairs. No need for the boys to see them.

He's outside the precinct entrance, bouncing on his feet. He's a wreck. He feels like a 13-year-old going on his first date. Peeking casually peeks in the front door—the tenth casual peek in five minutes—he withdraws his head when he sees Beckett emerging from the elevator. He doesn't want to look overeager.

"Beckett, hey, perfect timing," he says, stepping up to her as if he had just arrived.

"Hey, Castle." She smiles. "Where we goin'?"

Castle holds up a large tote bag. "I thought we'd go over to Battery Park. I have wine. Oh, and glasses. And a corkscrew. This is probably one of the last days it'll be warm enough to sit outside 'til spring. Is that OK?"

"Nice. And we won't have to breathe second-hand smoke while we wait to get through the rush-hour crush outside a bar."

The walk goes quickly as they chat about various cases. Nothing special, just companionable. Castle has his eye on a two-seater bench on a stretch of the Waterfront Greenway, overlooking the Hudson. His luck holds, and the bench is theirs. When he has poured the wine and handed Beckett hers, he raises a glass. "To the perfect partner. From the perfect partner."

He catches her mid eye roll.

"Seriously, Beckett. Thank you for letting me come back to work with you. I'm sorry I was an ass."

"You apologized already, Castle, there's no need."

"Well, I think there is." He reaches into his tote bag and takes out the box, which the store clerk had wrapped in purple paper—her favorite color, one of the many things she doesn't know that he knows about her. "I wanted to give you this."

"Castle, no."

"No? You can't say no." He's a little confused. Who says no to a present, even Beckett? "It's not like I got you lingerie."

She looks panicky. "_Lingerie_?"

"No, it's not lingerie. Really. I promise. Please, take it."

"But, Castle, I got something for you." She opens her bag, withdraws the box, and gingerly holds it out to him.

"Me? Why?"

"Because I want to apologize. I treated you so badly, Castle. You were trying to help, and you uncovered something really important, something I never found about my mother's case after years of digging. I'm ashamed of the way I behaved. Please. Please take this."

He's in an almost unprecedented wordless state. He passes the purple-wrapped box to Beckett, and clears his throat. "Thank you. I don't know what to say. Except, why don't we open these at the same time?"

"Deal." She unties the purple satin bow, peels the paper from the box, and removes the lid. She gasps. "Castle!"

He has just torn off the blue-striped paper and taken the lid from the box. He gasps at the same moment as she, meeting her "Castle!" with his own "Beckett!"

Her box holds a set of twenty-six letter-press handmade wooden blocks, each one delicate but confident. It's the alphabet in backwards capital letters that look like elegant handwriting.

His box holds a set of twenty-six letter-press machine-made metal blocks, each one bold and striking, the typography developed for automobile displays half a century ago. It's the alphabet in backwards capital letters, but not laid out in precise alphabetical order. The top line holds seven letters; the remaining nineteen are strung along beneath them. The seven letters spell out a message, with quoins separating the words: **I AM SORY**.

And now they are simultaneously silent, simultaneously astonished, simultaneously thunderstruck in the early-autumn, early-evening light. Beckett runs her hands over the letters, again and again. She looks up and sees him watching her closely. They're both smiling like polar explorers who just discovered true north.

"It's the Katherine font," she says.

"And mine is the King Richard font."

"Where did you get these, Castle?"

"I know a guy. Where did you get these?" he asks, his palm resting on **SORY**.

"You're not the only one who knows a guy."

"Think it could be the same guy? What a coincidence!"

"I don't believe in coincidences, Castle, you know that."

"Stick with me, and you might believe in something better. Like fate."

And right then, perched on a metal bench in downtown Manhattan, she converts, converts to a belief in fate. She leans over, and kisses him with the unstinting passion of a true believer.

He welcomes her into the fold instantly, continuing the welcome until they're both out of air. "Is this going where I hope it's going, Kate? Are you saying what I hope you're saying?"

"I hope so, Castle. Because what I'm saying? You're my type."

**A/N** So ends this chapter (five) and these fonts, but there are more ahead. Thank you all very much for your support.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N** This chapter takes place in no particular episode of no particular season, and is rated T.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

She's living proof that the Invasion of the Body Snatchers has actually taken place. Also Brain Snatchers, and especially Personality Snatchers. Kate is standing in the bathroom, naked, looking in the mirror and taking inventory. Everything appears unchanged. Wavy brown hair: check. Hazel eyes: check. Mole on left cheek: check. Bone structure: same as it was yesterday, last week, last month, last year. She leans forward and sticks out her tongue: nothing weird there. Teeth, ditto. She turns sideways to check her profile; turns again and looks over her shoulder. Yup: arms, legs, hands, feet, boobs, butt, stomach—just as they have been. Everything is the same, but everything is not the same. Everything has changed, is changing, will change.

What the hell is going on? Okay, okay, she knows what the hell is going on. But really, what has happened to her brain? She hasn't been able to think straight for days. How is it that no one has noticed? Or have they noticed and not said anything because they don't want to upset her? Is she losing her marbles? Will she get them back? Will some be missing? Worst of all, what is with her personality all of a sudden? She's a pile of mush. She's a sap. She's girly. Last night she cried over a car commercial because she thought the dog was going to get left behind. A dog. In a commercial.

In her mental cataloguing, she has saved the most damning evidence for last: she has taken up arts and crafts. Last night she downloaded an alphabet, carefully cut out some letters, started making a little thing. It's just a step, but it's still arts and crafts. Next thing she knows she'll be struck with the urge to quilt. She'll unaccountably duck into a knitting store to sign up for lessons. A glue gun will hold more interest for her than a Glock. The thought of it is enough to make her lose her lunch, except that it's seven in the morning and lunch is still six hours away. It's a good thing that Castle has been away all week and hasn't witnessed all this. She has time to pull herself together before he gets back tomorrow. Is tomorrow Sunday? See, there it is, mush brain: she doesn't know what day it is, but he's coming home and she's happy.

She doesn't remember having put on her bathrobe, but she's wearing it, so she must have, and she's singing in the kitchen. Hey, it's a song by Richard Rodgers, how's that for a coincidence? _"I didn't know what time it was, then I met you." _She gives a little twirl and turns on the kettle. _"Oh, what a lovely time it was, how sublime it was too."_ Oh, it was sublime, all right. She has no trouble remembering that sublime night, six weeks ago. Castle had been in meetings all day, she had been doing paperwork all day, and they had met for dinner and sinfully good wine at a tiny restaurant that redefined romantic. When they got home, she and Castle—a.k.a. the other Richard Rodgers, her own personal Richard Rodgers—had lost all track of time and everything else, beginning with their clothes. It was the night when she discovered that "fucked senseless" was not just an expression. Castle had discovered spots on and in her that she hadn't known existed: K-spot, N-spot, X-spot, half an alphabet at least. "I'm planting my flag, Kate," he'd say, regardless of which body part—finger, thumb, tongue, cock—was doing the planting. She did some pretty imaginative exploration, too, if she does say so.

Yeah, that was definitely the night that led to this, this, this transformation. This pregnancy. She's pregnant. She has known for sure since Tuesday, when she took one of those tests. Actually four of those tests, from four different drug stores so that no clerk would think she was a lunatic. The weirdest thing of all is that she's not terrified. Filled with bizarre thoughts, urges, questions, whims, and generalized befuddlement, yes, but not the one thing that she had expected, terror.

She takes her mug of tea—talk about transformation, she's drinking tea—to the table where she had left the beginnings of her arts-and-crafts project last night. She's making a series of notes on individual cards. On the front of every one she is pasting a large, bold slab-serif letter which she is shading with a colored pencil to give it depth and pop. There's a good word. Pop. Mom and Pop. Castle's pop, she's mom.

When her phone rings, she jumps. It's Lanie, calling to say that she has to cancel their lunch date. She's full of apologies and Kate is filled with unexpressed relief. Now she can stay in her jammies, drink tea, do arts and crafts, though she will check the mirror regularly to make sure that she's still Kate Beckett, bad-ass detective, or at least still looks like her. It takes her another hour or so to wrap up her project, and several minutes to decide where to secrete the cards. She shoves the first in the pocket of Castle's favorite T shirt; presses one flat on top of the coffeemaker; tucks another in the bristles of his shaving brush; inserts the fourth inside the lid of the Green Lantern cookie jar that he had insisted on buying ("It's limited-edition, Beckett. A great investment, in case my books stop selling or you lose your police pension."); lets the fifth peek out from under the base of the lamp on his desk, and drops the last in the drawer of his night table.

She decides to take a long bath and read while she's up to her chin in bubbles. Is there a Nicholas Sparks book around? _What_? Okay, this has to stop. She'll get one of the Nikki books, return to her senses. Ahhh, the water is perfect. She could stay in her forever. Just add a little more hot water, keep the tube the right tempera…

She jolts upright, little bits of bubbles clinging to her breasts. She peers down at them; did they get a little bigger while she was in the tub? And what's that noise? Shit, someone is tiptoeing in the loft. Her detective radar is flashing as the doorknob is turning.

"Surprise!"

"God, Castle, you almost gave me a heart attack," she says, slapping a hand just above her (newly enlarged) left breast.

"Is that any way to greet someone who cut a day off his trip and had to take three planes, one of which spent two hours on the ground in Rapid City, South Dakota, to get home to you?" He grins and starts unbuttoning his shirt. "You look bubble-icious. Can I get in there with you?"

"Are you kidding? Can you undress any faster?"

He all but tears off the rest of his clothes and gets into the tub. "Yikes! This water is cold. How can you stand it? Were you taking an ice bath to cool off because you were having indecent thoughts about me?"

"Uh, no. It was hot when I got in, but I fell asleep."

"Okay, let's get out and get in a hot shower instead." He helps her out of the tub, and very soon after they are, in fact, doing a variety of things that many people would deem indecent in a shower.

Kate towels off first and heads for the bedroom, where she takes his T shirt—that T shirt—from the drawer, along with a pair of pajama bottoms, and puts them on the bed. "Castle? I put out a shirt and pajama pants out for you on the bed. How about a late breakfast? I'll go start the eggs." She heads straight for the kitchen and takes the eggs from the fridge, but just futzes around. She's waiting for him to say something.

"Kate?"

She quickly cracks the eggs into a bowl and starts whisking. "What? I can't hear you. You'll have to come in here."

Castle is holding the card in his hand, and looks puzzled. "What's this?"

"Looks like a card?"

"It's handmade. Who's it from?"

"I don't know. Was it in your pocket?"

"Yeah." He holds it up and she can see the large letter A.

"Is there something inside?" Whisk, whisk.

"Yeah. It says 'What is the wish to the thought?' "

"Hmm, a riddle." She pours the eggs into the pan and watches them carefully so he that can't see her expression.

"How'd it get in my pocket?"

"I'm sure I have no idea, Castle."

He walks behind her, wraps his arms around her waist and whispers into her ear. "Really? No idea?"

She can't help it. She giggles. That's another thing, she's been giggling all week, and she's really never been a giggler.

"Gotcha! That's a tell. You did this, Beckett. I'm going to get this out of you." He closes the card, runs his thumb over the carefully colored letter, and reopens the card.

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. But before you begin interrogating me, could you make some coffee, please?"

Less than a minute later, he has found card number two. "A big E? And inside it says, 'Who does my heart belong to?'. I can't believe you ended a sentence with a preposition. This really should be 'To whom does my heart belong?'"

"I don't think that's the point, Castle. Although, I certainly hope that your heart belongs to me."

"Sorry, sorry, sorry. How many more of these are there, Riddler?"

She takes the pan from the stove and serves the eggs. "I guess you'll have to look. My lips are sealed."

"Aha, but I know how to unseal them." He reaches underneath her T shirt, begins to tickle her and kisses her, hard.

She melts against him. "Okay, yes. I did it. There are four more." She tilts her head up and gives him her slyest smile. "You want hints?"

"About what they mean or where they are?"

"You have to figure out what they mean, but I'll give you hints about their locations."

"It's like a treasure hunt!" he says. "Forget the eggs!"

"Wow, Castle, too excited to eat? Did I hear you right?"

"C'mon. The third one."

She runs the back of her hand over his jaw. "You could use a shave."

He's running to the bathroom before she can finish her sentence, and she hears the cabinet door slam shut. He's back in the kitchen, waving the H card. " 'Beat someone, eight to the bar?' Okay, where's the fourth?"

"You're not even going to try to answer the question before you look for the next card?"

"No, I can't, I can't wait. Please, tell me."

"You didn't want the eggs. How about a cookie with your coffee?"

Given the force with which he removes the lid from the priceless cookie jar, it's a wonder nothing breaks. He pries the card out. "It's an F. And inside, 'I want a sugar — — — — —'." Castle claps his hands. "Quick, quick, number five, Beckett!"

"Is the light dawning, Castle? In your office?"

Shit, who knew the guy could move this fast? She can see him turning on the desk lamp, lifting the base and picking up the card, which he scans briefly before his mad dash back.

"I got it! I got it!" He's waving the card again. "See, it's an R."

"I know, I made it, remember?"

"And inside it says, 'Marcel Duchamp, Max Ernst and you.'" He looks up. "You means me, right? Six, six, six, where's the sixth one?"

She can't read his expression, other than excitement that is higher than she has ever seen, which is saying a lot. The cookie jar pales. "Night, Castle."

He's off before the starter's pistol, and she should call him on it, penalize him. She takes a few steps, figuring she'll track his progress in the bedroom, but decides to stay put. It shouldn't take him too long. She can hear a few bumps and swishes—that one had to be the comforter, landing on the floor—as well as some muttering, culminating in "Aha!" There's the sound of the drawer closing, and here he comes, his cheeks pink.

"Sit down, Castle," she says, patting the stool next to her. "Have some coffee to soothe your nerves."

He bounces into the seat. "It's a T!" he crows, before opening the card. "'The third Sunday in June.' Huh. Huh."

"Which one are you tackling first, Castle?" she asks, running her fingers seductively along the back of his neck.

"You know I like to look at the whole picture," he says. "Should I start with the outside or the in?"

"The in."

"Why? Why shouldn't I start with the letters? What's this font, by the way? It's really cool."

"Riddles, Castle, riddles. Start with the in."

"Okay. But just because you did make these for me. Which, by the way, I find hard to believe. I mean I'm thrilled, but stunned. You don't _make_ things, Beckett."

She points sternly at his messy stack of cards. "In."

He starts with the one that she had hidden in his T shirt pocket. "What is the wish to the thought. The wish to the thought. Wish, wish, wish. This rings a bell." He's ruminating. "Father! The wish is the father to the thought!"

"Very good. Next?"

"But—"

"Whole picture, Rick, remember?"

He reaches for number five. "Marcel Duchamp, Max Ernst and you. Me. I don't get it. Artists. I'm not an artist, I'm a writer. Duchamp and Ernst, ah, both big names in the Dada movement. Is that it?"

"Sealed lips, sealed lips."

"All right, I'm looking at another. How about the one with the bar? Beat someone eight to the bar. I dunno. Please, could you give me just a little hint?"

"Just one," she says "I'm surprised you didn't get this right away." She starts humming the boogie-woogie classic and looks for the light to go on in his eyes.

Castle pivots so hard that he cracks his knee against hers. It's not light that's going on in his eyes, it's something else, something not yet definable. "Beat me daddy, eight to the bar. Father, Dada, Daddy." He's gripping her hand and pulling all the cards towards him. "I want a sugar daddy. My heart belongs to daddy. And the third Sunday in June, that's Father's Day." Gazing first at her face, then the counter, then back to her face, he closes all the cards and organizes them until they spell out F-A-T-H-E-R. "Oh, my God, Kate," he says, grabbing her harder than he ever has before, and lifting her into the air before sliding her down so that her legs are around his waist. He sits back down with her in his lap and whispers a question, "Kate?"

She whispers back, "I'm pregnant."

And then he does the oddest thing: he bursts into tears. And then he laughs. And then he does both. "I can't believe it. We made a baby?"

She is incandescent. "We did. Not intentionally, but we did."

"We made a baby. Wow. And you made me these cards."

"I did."

"Just to tell me."

"Yup."

"This has to be a special font, right? What is it?"

"Are you ready? It's the Father font."

"I didn't know there was such a thing."

"There is, and I found it. And you know what I'd like now, Father, daddy, Dada?"

"What? Anything, you can have anything."

"I'd like to go to bed with you."

"You got it." And he carries her to their room, and puts her on the bed, and joins her there. An hour later, when both are happy and sweaty and wearing nothing but the goofiest grins, he pulls her to his chest. "I should go away more often. You get so many ideas, so many, many ideas. I'm the luckiest man on earth, you know?"

"Yeah?" Kate asks, feeling very sappy. "How's that?"

"Because," he kisses her loudly, "Not only am I going to be a father again? I'm married to the mother of invention."

**A/N** So ends this font and this chapter, but there will be more down the road. Thanks so much for all your support.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N** This two-part chapter begins immediately after 2x14, "The Third Man." The first installment is rated K+; the rating will change in the next part.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

It's very late, and most of the diners dotted around Remy's are graveyard-shift reporters taking a quick break. A few lonely-looking souls are propping up the small bar, and Kate Beckett and Rick Castle are seated in a booth near the kitchen door. Castle likes it because of its proximity to the smell of French fries simmering in deep fat; Beckett likes it because it's quiet. They came here after an unsuccessful evening at Drago, a trendacious restaurant where both of them had been on aborted first-and-last dates: Castle—one of the _The New York Ledger_'s Ten Most Eligible Bachelors—with a woman who was on the paper's Bachelorette list, and Beckett with a hunky firefighter, a date which she was on for the sole, unspoken purpose of making Castle jealous.

"Definitely not a hot date, huh, Beckett?" he says, pouring a staggering amount of ketchup on his burger. "Didn't need a fire extinguisher for that."

"Same with yours, Castle," she says, sucking the straw on her shake more vigorously than necessary. "There was better chemistry in the Smithsonian set I got for Christmas in fifth grade."

They both laugh, tacitly agreeing to stop teasing each other about their dreary dates. They segue easily to other things, all sorts of other things, like movies and books and ballistics and precinct gossip. They had paid the check at least an hour ago, but they're still here and no one is hustling them out. Beckett doesn't want to break up the party—it really does feel like a party, a great two-person party—but thinks she should. "Castle, I gotta head home, it's really late." Why does she feel so awkward? "Have to be in, you know, early. Oh, soon."

Castle leaps up as if he has been zapped by a Taser. "Right! Right. Me, too. Uh, Alexis, school. And things." He feels sweaty, which is ludicrous. It's only spring. "Wanna share a cab?"

"Sure, why not? We're pretty much the same direction."

"Yeah."

They get a taxi easily, infinitely relieved and desperately sorry that the ride is short. Castle insists that the driver drop off Beckett first, and asks him to wait until she is safely inside her doormanless building. It's a compromise, since Beckett refuses to allow him to escort her home. "I have a gun, Castle," she says, as she unfolds her legs from the cramped back of the cab and steps out onto the sidewalk. She leans back in and runs her hand quickly across the cuff of his jacket. "And a black belt in karate." He waits for her to close the door before he stifles a squeak. What he uses for stifling is the cuff which smells faintly of her.

Castle can't get her out of his mind. This is nothing new, except that it's four o'clock in the morning and he should be asleep. He's itching to text her, but he won't scratch. The only scratching he's going to do is to scratch the idea, but as long as he's wide awake he might as well be productive, get a little writing done. But when he turns on his computer, a different idea invades his mental workplace. He opens his email, enters an address, and hits Compose. The empty white space calls to him like Lorelei. Is he crazy? Possibly, but what harm is there in writing some phantom email that he's never going to send?

To: **khb41319 "**Hey, Beckett, thanks for rescuing me tonight. You totally erased that stupid date at Drago from my memory bank. I can't even recall her name. Bachelorette #3, ridiculous. Why aren't you on that list, anyway? You should be #1. No competition. No question. No argument. I have to have a discussion with the editor. Oh, and you smelled spectacular."

He reads what he has so far. It's awful, especially the last bit. Embarrassing, even for a phantom email that no one will ever see. He'll just delete it. He clicks on the little trash-can icon, and a yellow box appears at the top of the screen: "Your message has been sent. View message." No, no, no, no, no, no, no! He didn't hit Send. He couldn't have hit Send. He slams down the lid of his computer as if the jolt could shoot through the ether and destroy the message before it lands in Beckett's account. Oh, fuck. Now what, Doctor Freud?

Beckett lifts her head from the pillow where she isn't sleeping. She heard something. Is that an incoming email? At—she picks up her phone and squints at the screen—4:02 a.m.? She pulls up her email and there it is, something from Castle. He never emails. He texts, and not in the middle of the night. There must be something wrong. Her heart is racing and she's already out of bed and reaching for her clothes when the message appears. What? He said that? She plunks down, almost misses the edge of the bed, can't get much purchase and slides onto the floor. She reads the email again. And again. And one more time. And then she hits Reply.

To: **rcbroome** "Thanks, Castle, that's really sweet. I obliterated the name of my hose-jockey date, too. You should be way, way higher than #9. P.S. It's called Bois d'argent."

She hits Send, and then lies flat on the hardwood and smacks herself on the forehead.

Castle is still mentally consulting Sigmund Freud and thinking about moving on to Doctor Ruth when he hears a beep on his computer. He's hoping that it's the sound of his email detonating high above Manhattan. Maybe he should have a good stiff drink before he opens up his laptop. It must be Beckett, but how bad can it be? Really bad, staggeringly bad, so bad that it's beyond the outer limits of his imagination? Or maybe it's someone else! Someone in Europe where it's already ten o'clock, a reasonable hour for communicating. He reopens his computer, winces, and checks his inbox. There it is, but this can't be right. She says he's sweet? That he should be higher on the list? He knows he's sober, but he's feeling drunk. Maybe _she's_ been drinking. He hesitates for all of two beats.

To: **khb41319 **"If the paper ranks me #1 next year will you go out with me? Except I don't want to wait that long."

He picks up his cell phone, calls up the stopwatch and starts it with equal measures of dread and euphoria. Twenty-seven seconds? Wow.

To: **rcbroome** "I'll go out with you even if they demote you to #10."

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

To: **khb41319 **"How about right now?"

Tick-tock.

To: **rcbroome** "No, but how about tonight?"

Tick.

To: **khb41319 **"It's a date."

Tock.

To: **rcbroome** "OK."

She can't turn her phone off, since she might get a call from the precinct, but she can at least put it facedown so she doesn't see it. See what she has done, what she has committed to. What she should do is commit herself to the psych ward. After a few minutes she gives up on the idea of sleep, puts on some coffee and takes a shower. When she's putting on her make up she peers closely in the mirror. She's had no sleep. She looks like death on a raft. How can she go on a date? Maybe when he sees her at the precinct, he'll reconsider.

Except by nine o'clock he still hasn't come in, and she's getting worried. Should she text? Call? She's definitely not emailing, look where that got her. And whoops, there it is, an email.

To: **khb41319 **"Just wanted to let you know I'm not coming in today because I'm making plans for our date. I'll pick you up at seven."

There's something different about this email. It doesn't look familiar. It's the typeface: he's using one that she's never seen before. Well, good, that'll give her something to say in her reply that has nothing to do with Their Date.

To: **rcbroome** "Did you just install a new font?"

To: **khb41319 **"Yes."

To: **rcbroome** "I love it. It's very Deco."

To: **khb41319 **"Are you excited about our date?"

To: **rcbroome** "Tell me about the font, Castle."

To: **khb41319 **"I'm really excited about tonight."

To: **rcbroome** "What's the font? You're always dying to tell me about every new gizmo you get."

To: **khb41319 **"You're going to love where we're going."

To: **rcbroome** "The only place I'm going is crazy, Castle. Later."

She's confused. Why won't he tell her about the font? Did he think she wouldn't notice? Of course not. So what's the point?

"Ha!" She hadn't meant to say it out loud, and Espo and Ryan raise their heads to stare at her. "Nothing," she says, flapping her hand before turning back to her computer. Oh, yeah, she knows Castle's game: he wants her to figure out what the font is. It's some weird code of his, or something. Forget it, she's not biting.

Castle is not only excited about their date but amazed that in the bright light of day—almost noon—Beckett hasn't backed out. The font thing is troubling him, though. Maybe he shouldn't have sprung it on her so soon. Maybe he should have waited until after their date, seen how it went. Except he's so sure of it, of them, now. It's going to go well, really, really well. Incredibly well. Look how last night went, when he thought he'd ruined everything. He'll hang on to that thought, and he'll hide out until it's time to pick her up. No font talk, no talk at all.

The day drags on, with each of them clinging to self-imposed silence. Beckett finally goes home at four-thirty, which gives her plenty of time to get ready. There's also time enough for inspiration to strike. She'll get back at him. Drive him a little crazy for a change. She calls him; he lets it go to voicemail. She calls again; same thing. On the third try she says firmly, "This is urgent, Castle. I'm not kidding. I need help."

He can't ignore that, and he picks up. "Is everything okay?"

"I need to show you something. Tap your FaceTime button."

"Done. Wait, Kate, are you naked?"

"Pfff, don't be ridiculous," she says, carefully angling the phone so that he has a clear view almost down to her cleavage.

"Well, your shoulders are bare, I just naturally wondered about the rest of you."

"I don't know how to dress, since I don't know where we're going. Want to come in my closet and help?"

The squeak he suppressed in the cab has nothing on this one, which he is trying to turn into a persuasive sounding cough. The door to the closet is open, and there are all sorts of filmy, slinky, clingy, insubstantial things hanging right there in the front, in full view, things that he'd love to see her in and get her out of. "Beckett?"

"Yes?"

"Maybe you should just hold some clothes up to you so I can make an informed choice."

"That's the idea, Castle." She reaches in and grabs a heavy turtleneck sweater and a pair of slightly baggy jeans. "What about these? Too informal?" She can't wait to see his reaction.

Sure enough, he looks crushed. "Uh, yeah, a little."

She leans down for something, and straightens up. "Okay, well, can you picture me in this? If we're going"—she brings a microscopic bikini into view just under her collarbone—"somewhere hot?" She's rewarded with hearing him wheeze.

"Holy crap, Beckett, would you actually wear that? Because I can change plans this instant, it's not too late."

She laughs. "Okay, Castle. I'll quit now, but it was fun."

"The last part was, that's for sure."

"I'm signing off, but just give me a general idea first? Informal? Semi-formal? Formal?"

"Kind of dressy casual."

"Oh, Castle, I do love your fashion awareness." She smiles broadly. "See you in a bit." She clicks off. And though she will make the admission only to the deepest, most hidden corner of her heart, she really is very, very excited about their date.

Of course Castle, dressed in an immaculately tailored suit and blue shirt, no tie, knocks at her door at precisely seven o'clock. She waits a bit before opening it, as if she weren't quite ready, when in truth she has been perched nervously on a chair since six forty-two. "Hi, Castle. Come in. You look really nice. I just have to grab my coat. And my bag."

"You look fantastic." His whole face is smiling as he takes in her silk blouse, evening trousers and the sexiest-yet-elegant stilettos ever made.

When they get to the street, Kate is surprised to see his Ferrari at the curb. "Wow, Castle. Can I drive?"

"Maybe on the way back. If you're sober."

"I can drink you under the table, Castle. Oh, yeah, I'll be driving this baby home."

Once they're safely buckled up, he heads directly for the West Side Highway.

"Gonna tell me where we're going?"

"Nope. It's a surprise."

"Gonna tell me about that font?"

"Nope. It's a surprise."

"Is this a sampling of the sparkling conversation we're going to have tonight?"

"I hope not. Just enjoy the ride, Beckett."

She does. She's aware that Castle pushes the speed limit only just as much as he can, but they're still able to get out of the city quickly, and before long enter the magnificent Hudson Valley. He turns off onto a two-lane back road that runs through a woodsy, hilly area, then turns again into what appears to be a private drive.

"Here we are, Beckett," he says, as he pulls the car into a small parking area. "You ready?"

Beckett gets out and looks around, obviously puzzled. "It's beautiful, but aren't we having, uh, dinner? There's nothing here."

"Oh, but there is." He points to something fifty yards to their left. "See that tent?"

"Tent? We're eating in a tent? What are we having, s'mores?"

"If that's what you want, I'm sure the chef can arrange it."

"There's a chef in the tent?"

"Since you asked, yes, there is." He offers her his arm. "Let's go."

They step inside the five-hundred-square foot tent, which is decked out in strings of fairy lights. In one corner is a candlelit table set for two; in another, a chef stands at the ready behind a table where food is being kept warm. There is a large cooler at his feet. But what really takes Beckett's breath away is something else: they are at the edge of a garden, and the tent encloses two small beds of flowers and herbs that are surrounded by tiny privet hedges. The tent has a heavy plastic window through which she can see more flower beds, pebbled paths and a few small statues.

"That's Puck," she says, pointing at the nearest one, and without meaning to takes Castle's hand in hers. "We're in a Shakespeare garden."

Becket is holding his hand. She's holding his hand. "We are. Do you like it?"

"I love it. It's magical. How did you do this?" She tilts her head at him. "Wait, don't tell me. You know a guy."

"I do. Let's sit down before this amazing meal the chef has promised me gets cold. I asked him not to cook anything Shakespearean, though. Like mutton."

"Good plan. What is he cooking? It smells delicious."

"It's Italian."

"I'm guessing there's a reason?"

"See, that's why I wanted to go on a date with a detective."

Over the next hour, they share a salad of fennel and wild oranges, enormous helpings of wild mushroom risotto with truffles, and enough wine to give them just the right buzz.

"Castle, this is amazing. I know there's dessert, but I have to wait until my stomach has room." There's a little wickedness in the smile she sends him. "You gonna tell me about that font while we wait?"

"Not quite yet."

Then she rests her chin in her palm and looks straight at him, and he can hardly breathe. He leans in and says into her ear, " 'See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand: O! that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek.' " He draws two fingers gently across her jaw.

"Castle," she says softly, "That's Romeo to Juliet."

TBC

**A/N** This is not only a two-shot font but will eventually feature two fonts. All will be revealed soon—tomorrow or the next day. Thank you again for all your support for this.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N** This three-part chapter begins immediately after 2x14, "The Third Man." The rating of this second installment is K+. Yes, you read this right, the two-parter will be expanding into a three-.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

"Yes," Castle says, just as softly, letting his fingers rest in the hollow beneath her cheekbone. "And for the first time in my life, I know just what he felt like."

"You do?" She tilts her head into his fingers, bringing her hand up to cover them and hold them there, pressed warmly against her skin. "I'm leaning my cheek upon _your _hand now."

He wants to take this moment and keep it, embed it in amber and wrap it in silk. Tuck it away somewhere. He closes his eyes and tries to shut out everything but the feel of her hand over his, her skin on his. If he opens his eyes, will she be gone?

She has closed her eyes, too. Her mind is cloudy, in the best possible way, as if it's a sky sprinkled with every kind of spectacular cloud—cumulus, lenticular, cirrostratus—but it's also impossibly clear, as clear as she has ever known it to be. She opens her eyes and there he is, looking right at her.

"Kate?" He's a little hesitant. "Is this all right, then?"

He can't possibly be worried, can he? She smiles at him. "It's not all right, Castle. It's so much better than all right. It's way past all right. About two planets past all right. It's perfect." She looks down at her lap, suddenly shy.

His anxiety evaporates. "It is?"

"Yeah." She wraps her hand around his fingers, lifts them from her face and brings them together to the table top. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course! Ask my anything. What I weighed at birth. My bank balance. The population of Wyoming—I don't know, but I'll find out for you. Anything, really anything. Even my most embarrassing moment."

"Well, actually I'm a little embarrassed to ask this."

He squeezes her hand and chuckles. "Okay, then we can be embarrassed together. Team Red. We can get T shirts made."

"Castle, are you nervous?"

"Is that the question?" He's trying to be light, keep this light, even though he's never been more serious.

She's feeling somewhat braver now, doesn't have to look at him through her eyelashes. "No, but are you? Nervous?"

"A little." He squeezes her hand again.

"Me, too," she admits, and laces her fingers through his. "So, when you emailed me?"

He hates that she still looks bashful. He wants to make her laugh. Maybe if he feigns indignation. He draws back a bit. "Is this about the font?" Ah, that did the trick.

"No! But I'm insisting on full disclosure about that later. You know, since you said I could ask you anything."

Castle puts his free hand over his heart. "I'll tell you later. You have my word."

"Okay. When you emailed me last night, no, this morning—God, I can't believe all this happened today—was it." She stops. Does she want to know the answer? Yes, whatever it is, she does. "I know this sounds idiotic, but was it an accident? Did you send it by accident?"

A meteor just struck the middle of his rib cage. It's over. He might as well be dead. Of all the lousy questions she could have asked. Fuck. Everything about him collapses, starting with his face. He curls into himself, his head bowed barely an inch above his wine glass. He has to tell the truth. The truth that will condemn him to a lifetime of misery. And he has to look her in the eye when he does it, sit up straight. He fills his crushed lungs with air. "Yes." He waits for her to stand up and turn away, ask him to drive her home and forget that any of this ever happened. But why is she still holding his hand?

"I'm glad," she says.

Surely what he he heard is just his wishful thinking."You're what—you're glad?"

"May I ask you another question before I answer that, Castle?"

Maybe the meteor didn't do too much damage, after all. He's breathing; she's beaming. "Yes, yes, I owe you. Yes."

"I was just wondering, or hoping, really, if you were—okay, this is the really embarrassing part—fantasizing about me? Or us? After Remy's. And you didn't mean to send the email because if you did I might run the other direction? It was an email, not a text. It was meant to be just for you. Safe. Safe-at-home fantasy."

He's stunned. "So, you _wanted_ me to have sent it by accident, like a butt-dial cell-phone call? Why?"

"Because if you had done it deliberately it would have been less, I don't how to express it. Less meaningful. More jokey, sort of our specialty. The part about me smelling good, that's when I really thought that you'd sent it by accident."

He's still stunned, and befuddled. "I always think you smell good. Remember a couple of months ago when I told you you smell like cherries? It was your hair, I love that it smells of cherries. I thought you knew." He's probably saying too much. "And fantasizing? You must know I fantasize about you. You read _Heat Wave_. I mean, I say it's Nikki, but, well." He comes to a stop. "I still don't really understand."

She untangles their fingers, and turns his palm upwards. She looks so intently at it, begins tracing one finger over it as if she's reading it, trying to find a future. "Because if you wrote it for you, it was what you really wanted to say to me, but couldn't. You noticed my perfume. You thought I smelled spectacular." Now she can look at him again. "Do you see?"

"I do. And it's true. May I ask you something now?"

"'course."

He can feel the air change. "Do you fantasize about me? About us?"

"Yes." She looks so happy, so young, and he can tell that she's holding back a laugh.

"That's it? Yes?"

"Yes."

"Wait, is this payback because I haven't told you about the font?"

"Yup."

"If I tell, will you?"

"Yes."

"Thank God, because I can't take anymore of this monosyllabism. Okay, here's the thing about the font. When you said you'd go out with me, I felt like I might—if I was really, really lucky and didn't screw things up—I might get to be part of an incredible romance. Like _Romeo and Juliet_, only staying alive. I'm not kidding, that's what you did to me when you said yes. Yes, you'd go out with me. And I got the idea about taking you to dinner in a Shakespeare garden, because I wanted to do something that would mean something to you, and that no one else has done with you. At least I hope this is a first for you, is it?" He's almost afraid to look at her.

She nods. "Definitely. Definitely a first."

"Well, I know you love typography, and then I got the idea of installing a new font in my computer that I would use just for emailing you. And I decided that if this evening went well, that I'd install one—not the same one, a complementary one—in yours. And I feel like this evening is going well, now, a whole lot better than well, maybe three planets past well, and so I'm hoping that I could install yours?"

It's her turn to feel short of breath. "Please. Please, yes."

"The one I'm using is Romeo. Yours will be Juliet. You don't think it's too corny?"

"No, I don't. I think it's the most romantic thing ever. And you know what else? I'm not up on a balcony, Romeo, so why aren't you over here kissing me?"

TBC

**A/N** I apologize. I got swept away in romance and decided that this font folly will have a third part, for which the rating will go up. Thanks for sticking with it!


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N** This three-part chapter begins immediately after 2x14, "The Third Man." This, the third and final installment, is rated M.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

The silverware rattles; a spoon slips to the ground. Beckett grabs the pepper grinder before it can join the spoon, and catches a water goblet as it sails in the general direction of the chef.

Castle is unaware that he has almost upended the table in his rush to get to the other side of it. All he knows at this moment, the sum total of his cerebral processing, is that Beckett asked him to kiss her. Kate asked him. He's standing next to her, towering over her because she's sitting, so he bends from the waist and takes her head in his hands. He could look at her like this forever, except that he can't bear to put off the kiss. It begins slowly, though it's anything but tentative. He brushes his lips lightly over hers, and she reciprocates; he weaves his hands through her hair, and she does the same to him. He dusts her cheekbones and her eyelids, her temple and the sculptural line of her jaw, with kisses, and she moans. It's one of the most erotic sounds he has ever heard, and he'd keep on doing what he's doing to elicit more of it, but he's already missing her lips. Her mouth. What he wants is her mouth.

When the tip of his tongue flicks at the seam of her lips, she responds with abandon, opening wide to him. He tastes even better than the four-star meal that they've just eaten, and she's devouring him.

Her kiss is unrestrained, so wild that it brings him to his knees. Castle wraps his arms around her in a tight embrace that almost pulls her off the chair. He can feel the heat of her breasts, trapped between his chest and the silk of her blouse, and she can feel the pounding of his heart. It's a mutual, invitational assault, each one welcoming the other with tongues and teeth, until Kate unaccountably pushes him away.

"Castle, Castle," she's panting. "Please, we have to stop. We have an audience. The chef."

"Okay." He's gulping in air, not at all sure that he can get to his feet, certainly not without revealing the monumental bulge that's filling the front of his pants. He summons the will to stand and stumbles back to his chair, blessing the low light as well as the discretion of the chef who has suddenly busied himself with something at his station, twenty feet from them. Castle sits down, still searching for a steady breath. He looks at her, just an arm's length away. "You are so beautiful. You're luminous."

"You, too," she says, reaching her long fingers out to him. "You're beautiful." She inclines her head just a fraction and chuckles. "We were the unscheduled floor show, weren't we? But I think we should eat dessert, don't you? We can't insult him by not having it."

"You're right," Castle says. "You may not believe it, but I'm hungry."

"The way you were going after my mouth?" she says, not bothered that she just snorted. "Oh, I believe it."

"You seemed pretty hungry to me, too, Beckett," he says, raising one eyebrow and a corner of his mouth. "Voracious. Ravenous. Ravaging."

"Funny, you seemed to revel in the ravaging."

"I did. And now I'll let Francesco know that we're in control of our senses—at least for the moment—and would love to have our dessert." He gets up and takes a few steps toward the chef, indicating that they're ready for their last course. The chef gives him the tiniest bow, matched by the tiniest smile.

He has barely had time to sit before Francesco appears with a tray bearing dessert and coffee. Beckett briefly drags her gaze away from Castle and onto the spectacular Italian cream cake, three rich layers with a cream cheese frosting that's studded with chopped walnuts.

She spears a chunk of cake and holds the forkful out to Castle. "Open up," she instructs.

He takes it into his mouth, licking his lips noisily afterwards. "Yum."

"Tsk, tsk," she says, bringing the fork back to her own mouth. "You left some frosting on that tine. I need to clean that off." She runs her tongue slowly from the base, just above the handle, to the top. "Mmmm. Creamy, smooth, not too sweet. Just what my tongue needed." She doesn't have to look to know that he's transfixed. "Want another taste?"

Castle would not deny that he's whimpering. "Beckett."

"Yes?" Butter, or cream cheese, wouldn't melt there.

"Could we eat this quickly? So we can leave?"

She does a credible imitation of astonishment. "Really? You want our evening to end now? I didn't know you had a curfew. I'll finish up quickly." True to her word, she polishes off her cake and tosses down the coffee in two minutes. "Don't want to make you late, Castle."

He's so mesmerized that his brain is running about half a minute behind. His brow creases. "What? A curfew?"

"End of our date, Castle. You said we had to leave."

He's spluttering. "No, no. I meant we should leave so we can, you know."

"We can what?" she asks, all innocence and propriety.

"So we can be," he drops his voice to a whisper, "alone."

"Oh," she whispers back. "In that case, I'm outta here." She stands up and offers him her hand. "Let's go thank Francesco."

After lavishing the chef with compliments, they walk back to the car as decorously as possible, which is not very. Castle goes to the passenger side to open the door for her.

"Noooooooooo," she says. "I'm driving. You said I could. Hand over those keys."

"What if I don't?"

"Then you will be alone, without me, as soon as we hit Manhattan."

He tosses her the keys.

They've gone no more than fifty yards on the dark country road before Castle's hand is on her knee. Twenty yards later, he's caressing the inside of her thigh.

"Castle," she hisses. "I'm driving."

"Should I move my hand?"

"Yes."

"Okay." He runs his hand higher and palms her. An electric jolt travels from her to him to her to him to her.

"Castle!" She pulls the wheel to the right, stops on the shoulder of the road, turns off the ignition and flicks on the emergency lights.

She turns halfway in her seat and he braces himself for a lecture. The lecture doesn't come. "You told me about the font, so I'll keep my end of the bargain. You asked me if I'd ever fantasized about you, about us and the answer is yes. Repeatedly. Know what one of my favorites is?"

He gulps, and shakes his head.

"Being in this car with you, feeling every bit of its five hundred sixty-two horsepower engine roaring straight into my crotch, like a vibrator on wheels. Feeling that, and seeing what it does to you. In my fantasy, I can watch you expand, can time how long it takes you to get hard without a stopwatch. You dig a coin out of your incredibly shrinking pants and we toss it to see who gets to go first, you on me or me on you."

He sounds as though he's been shot through with helium as he squeaks out, "No need to toss a coin, Kate. Your fantasy, your choice."

"We can't do it here, Castle. We could get killed."

"I'd die an ecstatically happy man."

"Another time, Castle. Somewhere safer."

"All right, somewhere safer. The Silver Slipper Motel is about five miles down the road."

"No."

"No?"

"No." In one syllable her voice goes from sultry to sweet, and she kisses him. "I don't want our first time to be on scratchy sheets in some crummy motel outside Poughkeepsie. And I don't want to know how you know about that place, either."

"Mother. I stayed there with my mother once when I drove her up here for a theater symposium. A storm came up that was so bad we had to get off the road and spend the night."

"And you wanted to have sex with me in a motel that you last stayed in with your _mother_?"

"Oh, God," he puts his hand over his eyes. "When you put it that way. I wish I hadn't mentioned it."

She gently pulls his hand down and looks shy again. "I did mean it. About our first time."

He tips her chin up. "What about if our first time is in my bed? Or yours?"

"Is anyone home at the loft?"

"Yes."

"Then it's my bed, Romeo. Fasten your seat belt, and keep your hands to yourself until we get there."

He does as he's told, for once, but he spends the whole ride back to the city looking at her, even when she pulls into the commercial garage a few doors down from her building and parks the car.

They walk quickly to her apartment. As soon as they're inside, with the door locked, she pulls him to her and runs her hands across his chest, pushing off his jacket and then unbuttoning his shirt. "Is this an Armani suit?" she asks, nuzzling his neck.

"Yes. Part of the Italian theme for this evening, you know, Romeo and Juliet, Verona."

"Do you have to have the sleeves altered?"

"Uh, yes, why?"

"Because your biceps are huge. I never realized." She is trying to get her fingers around them. "They're unbelievably sexy, you know? I could use one for a pillow."

"Yeah?" He's beginning to work on her blouse. "What about these?" he asks, pressing his hands over her breasts before moving one hand around her back to unfasten her bra. "I'd say that these are unbelievably sexy." When he slips her bra off, he sighs. "Not just sexy, perfect." He runs his tongue around one nipple, stopping only long enough to see her physical reaction—the immediate pebbling of the silky pink flesh—and to register her sharp gasp. He draws most of her breast into his mouth, and sucks, for which he's rewarded with another gasp. "Delectable, too," he says chirpily.

Her whole body is trembling. "My legs are wobbly, Castle. Much as I love being the subject of your taste test, I want to move out of the hallway to somewhere more comfortable. And inspirational."

"I don't need more inspiration than you, Kate, but yes, could you point me to your bed?"

"I can do more than that," she says. "I'll take you there."

Hand in hand, both topless, they race to her bedroom like two excited little kids running into the ocean in July. But the moment they arrive, any childhood images vanish. They quickly strip off the rest of their clothes, watching one another in a very, very adult way.

"Oh, my God," Kate says, awe-struck. "Your biceps aren't the only thing about you that's big."

"Are you complaining about my ego again?" he asks, unable to contain a smile laced with pride.

She steps forward, erasing the space between them. "Oh, no, I'm not talking about your ego. And I'm definitely not complaining."

He's silently giving himself advice. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in. "Yeah?" Breathe out. Breathe in. "Is it as good as your Ferrari fantasy?"

"Much better, spectacularly better. Since you brought it up—oops!" she wraps her hand around him, "and you said that it's my fantasy so I get first choice, well, I'm taking it." She releases him and nudges his chest. "Sit down on the edge of the bed."

"Edge, bed, I'm here," he says expectantly.

She drops lightly to her knees, licks the first viscous beads of pre-cum and then, without warning, takes him virtually whole into her mouth. He's never experienced anything like it. "God, Kate," he says, instinctively grabbing her hair with both hands and hoping that he can get out a question before she renders him speechless. "How in hell did you do that? You deep-throated me in one—" And he's gone, eyes rolling back, heart almost exploding. She can't answer him anyway, since her mouth is fully occupied, and her hands, too. What she's not fondling, rolling, twisting or tickling, she's licking, slurping, or sucking. His eyes are open again, and fixed on her. He's one Hoover Wind Tunnel-worthy suck away from Nirvana when he decides he had better pull her off him. "Kate?"

She gives him the look, the one that could pulverize a slab of granite. "My fantasy, and I'm not done."

Mine too he thinks, without saying so. "Okay." Not long after, what's exploding isn't his heart.

Beckett sits back on her heels. "Oh, Castle," she says, drawing out all three syllables that end in a radiant smile.

He takes her into his arms and brings her onto the bed with him, pulling them both down flat onto the mattress. "How'd that work out?" he asks giddily. "Fantasy fulfilled?"

She moves to sprawl on top of him, her face only inches away. "Only half."

"What? Half? I thought—"

She puts a finger to his lips. "Shhhh. The fantasy is both of us, remember? One goes first, then the other follows. I got to do you, now you get to do me. The first half was fantastic, right? You'd better agree." She smacks his chest lightly and nips his earlobe, a lot less lightly.

"Fantastic doesn't do it justice, Kate."

"Glad to hear it, because I am really, really ready for you to return the flavor." She runs her tongue over her bottom lip. "Um, favor. Return the favor."

He rolls her over and uses one knee to push her legs apart into a deep vee. She's so high with anticipation that she doesn't realize that he is nestled between her thighs until she feels him licking one of them, slowly inching upward, while his right hand is kneading the other thigh. She suddenly notices his left hand creeping across her stomach, gradually working downwards until his index and middle fingers part her labia.

"Mmm, hello, Slick," he says, looking up at her flushed face and trailing his fingers through her. She's already breathing hard. "Slick. New name for you, so descriptive."

"Castle," she mutters, her hands plucking at the sheets.

He ducks his head and moves his right hand from her thigh to her stomach, where he spreads his fingers and pushes down slightly. At the same time, he thrusts his tongue inside her as far as he can. She jerks upward so forcefully that he has to work hard to keep her on the bed. He is relentless with his tongue and fingers, switching them back and forth, probing, pressing, massaging, occasionally having to veer away from one of her thrashing feet. He brings her to the edge again and again, withdrawing every time she is at her tipping point.

She's almost delirious with lust and want and need. "So help me, Castle, I will kick you off this bed and finish myself off if you don't." There he is, grinning wickedly before disappearing again, dammit. And suddenly he has sent her to some place she has never visited, some unimagined place that surely requires a passport. A place she wants to move to, with him. Just the two of them. The place begins to fade away and she wonders if it's some orgasmic Brigadoon. He has to take her back, please. Where is he? When she opens her eyes, she finds that she's looking straight into his. She rests her hand on his cheek and considers the possibility that her pulse rate may never return to normal. She'll have to be on desk duty. Better yet, be ordered to rest in bed. Although there will be no resting.

"I've never seen anything like that, Kate," he says, gently pushing the hair from her forehead.

"And I've never felt anything like that." She reaches up to cradle his face. "Life almost never surpasses fantasy, does it? But it just did, Rick."

"Rick!" he crows. "You called me Rick!"

"You called me Slick."

"Oh my God," he says. "We rhyme!" And just like that they are laughing, laughing like people who have just discovered that they're in love, and have been for a long time.

Kate wiggles onto her side and rests her head on his arm. "I told you I could use this as a pillow."

"You going to sleep on me, Kate?"

"Not a chance. We haven't gotten to the main event." She reaches over and cups him. "I was going to ask you if you're ready, but I know the answer." She rolls again so that she's on top. And then she looks serious. "This has been so much fun. You made it fun. It was, it was, remarkable. But now, I want." She's astonished to feel herself tearing up. She can't say anything.

He moves a thumb under her eye. "Now you want romance, Kate. Me, too." He spans her waist with his hands, and he kisses her as he has never kissed anyone before.

An hour later they are wrapped up together, spent and heavy with happiness.

She kisses his palm. "May I ask you a favor?"

"After what you just did? Anything."

"Not right now. Tomorrow."

"Anytime." He kisses her back.

"Would you install the Juliet font for me?"

**A/N:** That's the end of this one, but there will be more fonts and stories to come. Thank you for your good cheer for all them; I really appreciate it.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **This chapter takes place in no particular episode of no particular season, and is rated K+.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

There are dog people and there are cat people. Even though he has no pets, has never had a pet, Richard Castle is squarely in the dog-person camp. So why is that he's feeling like a cat? Nervous as a cat. As a kitten, even. Jumpy, jittery. It's not as though he hasn't done this before. Twice, but who's counting? He'd rather not. The two other times don't count, anyway, or they shouldn't. They weren't anything like this: this is the real one, the real rest-of-his-life one, the rest-of-his-nine-lives one. No wonder he's felineish today.

Maybe he should get a dog, make a commitment. Maybe he will, afterwards, if things turns out all right, if she says yes. If Beckett says yes, I will marry you. I will make that commitment.

The ring has been in his sock drawer for a week. He had intended to stash it in the safe, but she sometimes puts her gun there. Bedside table, no way; desk drawer, ditto. The one thing that she never borrows from him is socks, so the ring is nestled securely with them. He'd put a lot of thought into the ring, but not nearly as much thought as he'd devoted to this: how he is going to propose. He knows that she'd want something intimate, so he has reined himself in. It will be fantastic. It will be intimate, but with impact. Unless she says no, in which case the only impact will be the proposal biting him in the ass.

He needs to be alone tonight because he's a wreck about tomorrow. Since Beckett would have seen through any explanation he concocted to explain his anxiety, he had told her that he had to write, that Gina was hounding him because he was two chapters behind. He groans, even though he's alone: he lied to her. That's a hell of a way to begin married life. But it's not really a lie, more like a fib. Maybe a ruse.

Everything is ready for tomorrow morning. If he calls people again about the details, they will kill him and the only thing Beckett will be saying yes to is the suit that Alexis and his mother choose to bury him in. So he'll text, surely that's okay. He texts, just to make sure. To save himself time and worry in the morning, he lays out his clothes, but he changes his mind as often as a 13-year-old girl getting ready for her first date. Which T shirt? Plain or with printing? What color running shoes? Should he wear socks? What kind of shorts? He has to have a pocket but he doesn't want to look lumpy. When he finally makes his selections, he strips, brushes his teeth, sets his alarm for 4:45 a.m. and goes to bed. Alone. For the last time, please. Tomorrow he had better not be the only person between these sheets.

He checks the time at least ten times an hour all night. By four o'clock he's had it, so he rolls out of bed, puts on the coffee, takes a shower and shaves. He dresses and fights the urge not to change again. He puts the ring, his phone, Swiss Army knife, keys, a hundred bucks and a small envelope in his pocket, and gets his coffee. He can't drink more than one mug, much as he wants to, or he'll need to pee, which would definitely put a damper on the proposal. Damper, heh heh. Not bad, Castle. Okay. Ready, set, go.

In the elevator he pats his pocket: still a little lumpy. He'll give his keys to the doorman, that'll do it. The car that he's called to drive them this morning is at the curb. He calls Beckett on the way, so she's waiting for him when they pull up. He jumps out to give her a kiss and let her in. It's not light yet, and the sky is a pale gray as they drive quickly uptown; it's Sunday, and there's very little traffic. They're both quiet: she's still a little sleepy and he's frantically trying to settle on the tone he should take at the outset. Dopey? Bashful? Happy? God, he can't be one of the Seven Dwarfs. How about Sexy? Silly? Romantic?

"Castle," Beckett says, giving his thigh a squeeze. "I applaud your plan for your new fitness regime, I really do, but I still don't understand why we have to run in Central Park at this hour of the morning on my day off."

"Because, Beckett, it's the rare and beautiful time when we can have the city almost to ourselves. The daffodils are blooming, the apple trees are blossoming, the birds are singing, and we'll be practically the only ones in the park to appreciate it." He picks up her hand and kisses her palm. "That's our reward for getting up so early to run. And I'll be behind you so I get to watch your gorgeous ass moving under those ridiculously tiny shorts. Which I love for that reason and also because they expose all sixty inches of your legs."

"My legs are not sixty inches long, Castle," she says.

"Coulda fooled me. Whoops, we're here." The car stops at the Navigators' Gate opposite the Museum of Natural History. Castle says a few words to the driver and, taking Beckett's hand, walks down the sloping path into Central Park. When the path levels off, Beckett drops his hand and moves to a small grassy area to begin a series of stretches.

"Castle."

"What?"

"You need to stretch before we start." She sees that he's still just standing. "What are you doing?"

"Enjoying the scenery."

"Blooming, blossoming, birds, got it." She starts on her calf raises.

"Actually, I was referring to you. You're the best scenery for miles."

"Thanks, Mister Flirtation, but you still need to warm up."

He hugs her from behind, circling his arms around her waist. "Oh, I'm plenty warmed up."

"Yeah, I can tell." She's attempting to sound serious, but she's chuckling as she swats his forearm. "Did you get me here under false pretenses?"

He drops his arms and walks around until he's facing her. "Certainly not. I'm turning over a new leaf now that it's spring and there's a new leaf everywhere I look. Can we start just by walking though? Build up to a run in a few minutes?"

"Okay, you've got a deal."

"It's the dawn of a new day, Kate," he says, reaching out to hook her little finger to hers.

"Yup, that's the way it works, every twenty-four hours."

"Doesn't it feel like the start of a new life right now? You know, everything stirring? We're walking down a new road together?"

She's watching him out of the corner of her eye, and she can't quite pin down his expression. Wistful? Yearning? "New road?"

"Yeah, new road for us, on this old road."

She tugs on his finger. "You trying to tell me something, Castle?"

"I'm engaging you in conversation, Beckett."

"Engaging me in conversation? You're very flowery this morning."

Now he's smiling. "Flowery. Maybe even bouquety."

"That's not a word."

"I believe it is, now, Detective. Remember, you are on this road of life with a wordsmith."

Something's up, she knows it. It's as if he's teasing her, but he's not teasing. And it's weird, because usually she can read him so easily, anywhere—his place, her place, the precinct, a crime scene, the movies.

This time he's tugging her finger, pulling her across the road to the left, onto an almost hidden little path. Right in front of them is a tiny structure, nine by fifteen feet, sited at the edge of the lake. It's almost 150 years old, made of iron lacework, slate and stone. "Look, Beckett!" he says. "It's the Ladies Pavilion. I love this place. It reminds me of you."

"Of me? Why?"

"Because it's strong but delicate," he turns his head to smile at her. "And beautiful."

"Wow, Castle, you really are flowery today. You trying to get out of our run?"

"Not really, but let's look inside, okay?"

He walks into the pavilion ahead of her. "Oooh. Somebody left something here. It's a basket."

She almost stumbles into him in the small space, and peers around him to see what is, indeed, a basket. A very fancy basket. An elegant hamper. "Castle."

He's crazy about that look of hers, the squinty-eyed one that's supposed to mean "what the hell did you do?" but really means "I think I'm going to love what you just did." So he says, "Yes?"

"You have anything to do with this?"

"I might."

"Breakfast, right? This isn't about an exercise routine, it's about food!"

"You got me."

"New road, eh? Well, it's still kind of adorable. Lemme see what's in there."

He puts his arm out to stop her. "Nope. You go sit down on the blanket that mysteriously appeared, and I will get the breakfast." He turns his back not only to unload the hamper but to send a quick text ("NOW") to someone—a someone whom he can see crouched in the shrubbery several yards away. Castle takes out a perfectly-chilled bottle of champagne and two flutes, sets them aside and carries the hamper to Kate.

Sitting next to her on the soft blanket, he waves his hand over the fitted-out hamper. "We have, for your delectation, croissants, two kinds of jam, a medley of raspberries, blueberries and blackberries, and coffee. Oh, and doughnuts, because you're a cop."

She bursts out laughing. "Oh, right! They're not for you, on this new road of yours." And she sees something else in his expression now, something of real sweetness.

"New road of _ours_, Kate." He passes her a cup of coffee, and a croissant on a plate with berries heaped next to it. She raises the croissant to him in a salute, and bites off one end. The instant she finishes chewing, he leans over and kisses her." You had a pasty flake right on your lip. I couldn't leave it there."

"No flake left behind, hmm?"

"That's what I propose, Kate. Leave no flake behind." They're almost there now, and his nervousness has flooded back. He can't eat; he'll just look at her.

"You're not having anything?" she asks, offering him a glazed doughnut.

"Not, uh, hungry right now." She puts down the plate and raises her hands. "I don't believe it. Something's up. In your entire life you've never turned down a doughnut."

"I think I could manage some champagne," he says, quickly retrieving the bottle and flutes. He holds them in one hand and offers the other to her. "There's a nice bench by the water there, see it? We can watch the sunrise from there. The sky's all pink, so it's almost here."

Castle leads her the short distance to the edge of the lake, making sure to angle his body in such a way that it blocks half the bench from her view. He pats the silvery wooden seat and says, "Here, Kate, sit down."

She senses rather than sees him slip down and kneel on the ground. "Castle?"

"Kate, look to your right. There's something on the top slat of the bench."

She turns her head and sees a metal plaque with four lines of text engraved in an elegant typeface that looks like calligraphy. While she starts to read it silently, he's reading it aloud:

I LOVE YOU, KATE.

WILL YOU MARRY ME?

RICK

SUNRISE, SUNDAY, APRIL 19, 6:10 a.m.

He's only halfway through when she hurls herself at him, her arms around his neck, knocking him to the ground. He lands on his back, with her on top of him. "Yes, I will marry you." She kisses him, hard. "'Yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes'."

"_Ulysses_? Oh, my God, you just quoted _Ulysses_? That has to be the greatest acceptance ever."

They're chest to chest and nose to nose and she's looking directly into his eyes. "I've wanted to say that to you for a long time."

"Kate, Kate, wait! We have to get up!" He's rolling them over in the grass and trying to lift her. They're still wrapped around each other, so getting up is a little awkward, but they manage. "You have to sit down here again, Kate, please."

While resumes her seat he gets on one knee and pulls a little box from the pocket where he'd placed it less than two hours earlier. He opens it and slips the ring on her.

She runs a fingertip over the diamond again and again before she finally speaks. "This is so beautiful. Everything. Come up here with me." When he sits down, she moves over to get in his lap. "Ohhhhh," she says, with a grin. "Now I get it, all those hints. New life, new road, bouquet, engaging, proposal."

"So you were paying attention to me, Beckett."

"I always pay attention to you, even if I pretend that I'm not."

"You ready for that champagne now?" She nods her head. "Hold on, I'll do the honors." He reaches down for the bottle, pops the cork, pours the bubbly into two glasses and hands her one. "To us."

"To us," she says, clinking her flute against his and taking takes a sip. "When did they install the plaque?"

"While we were having breakfast. I wanted you to be the first person to see it, so I paid the guy to wait behind that bush over there and do it while we were eating. Worth every penny."

She reaches past his shoulder to put her hand on it. "What's this font? It's so pretty. Reminds me of a wedding invitation."

"You're close. It's called Wedding Bells."

She cradles his jaw. "Did you know that I've always wanted one of the Park Conservancy benches, with the plaque?"

"No, but I'm glad you did. In fact, I'm doubly glad you did, because I got you two."

"Two benches, Castle? They cost a fortune. I just want this one. It's perfect."

"Not two benches, two plaques. I hate to do this, but I'm going to have to get up for a minute." He slides out from under her and stands to get the envelope and knife from his pocket. Using the knife's screwdriver, he removes the plaque and presents it to her. "This is for you to keep. But would you close your eyes now, please? I want this to be a surprise."

"Think I can handle another surprise, Castle?"

"I hope so." He takes the new plaque from the envelope and installs it where the first one had been. It's much the same, but with an extra line of text and a handsome font that's as plain as the other was fancy.

I LOVE YOU, KATE.

WILL YOU MARRY ME?

RICK

SUNRISE, SUNDAY, APRIL 19, 6:10 a.m.

P.S. SHE SAID YES

"Okay, open up."

She's as stunned this time as she was the first. And then she bursts into tears, stopping only after he has sat down on the bench again and put her on his lap. She's resting her cheek against his and reading the new plaque. "What font is this? I really like it, but it's so different from the other. Why'd you change it?"

"It's called Amour. I changed it because a wedding is just for a day but love is forever."

"That's so sweet. I amour you, Castle."

"I amour you, too, Kate." He draws her close for a kiss, which very quickly turns into protracted, extremely erotic kissing.

Castle sighs into her hair. "You know what else I love, Beckett? We can come here with our grandchildren when we're old and gray, and feed the ducks."

"The ducks will have to wait," she says, wiggling seductively against him. "Did you call our car? Because I want to go home with you. Right now."

**A/N** Heartfelt thanks to my friend ISW for the brilliant suggestion of having two plaques, one temporary and one permanent.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N** This chapter is set from just after 3x17 "Countdown" until just after 3x18 "One Life to Lose" and is rated T.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

The guy saves lives. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, Castle gets it. The guy saves lives. Doesn't make him any less of an asshole. And his hair? It looks like he hasn't washed it in weeks. Probably doesn't have time because he's too busy saving lives. How can Beckett stand sharing a pillow with this jerk? Yeccchh. He shudders. He needs to go to the nearest store and buy some Clorox and bleach his brain. Oh, God, Beckett with Doctor Disgusto Davidson. D-Cubed. That's what he'll call him from now on.

Besides, if someone is going to save Beckett, it should be he, not D-Cubed. She doesn't need a heart surgeon, she needs a heart specialist. Richard Castle, heart specialist. He knows what makes Beckett tick. He understands her heart a whole lot better than the doctor does. He's seen it break, seen her glue it back together, like when she shot Dick Coonan last year. Shot him dead to save Castle, and lost the chance to find out who hired Coonan to kill her mother.

Maybe he should drink some Clorox instead of this Scotch, since it would put him out of his misery permanently, instead of just for an hour or two. Besides, the booze isn't working at all. Look at him, he's sitting here, miserable and maudlin, in a very hip bar with at least—he does a quick scan of the room—six very hot and obviously available women within reach. But he doesn't want to reach them. That's just the trouble. The only woman he wants to reach is Beckett, who is hotter than those six women put together, but obviously not available. Barkeep, another, please. No, forget it. He'll just go home and hit his head against the wall. Or better, once he's home he'll go to the laundry room and make himself a Clorox nightcap.

He passed up the Clorox, after all, but he's home in bed, still thinking about D-Cubed hugging Beckett earlier in the day, right in the middle of the precinct. He, Richard Castle, and she, Kate Beckett, had just saved the city from a dirty bomb. She'd hugged him when he ripped the wires out of the bomb, but right after that she was hugging the guy with dirty hair.

Castle can't sleep. He usually sleeps like the dead, whose ranks he's almost willing to join, but he's not sleeping at all tonight. He picks up his phone and checks the time: almost five a.m. So now he's not sleeping this morning, either. He knows why, but that doesn't solve anything. He looks up at his bedroom ceiling, a pale expanse of nothing. Good description of his love life lately. He knows why that is, too: it's the same reason he can't sleep. He's jealous. Everyone knows Iago's speech to Othello about beware the green-eyed monster, jealousy. Yeah, but who remembers Othello's response? "O misery!" Damn straight.

Another week has gone by, another case has been solved. It had been fun, actually, going to his mother's old stomping grounds, the set of the soap opera _Temptation Lane_, where one of the writers had been murdered with an axe to the back. There's a statement for you. He's been trying to hold off the jealousy, just enjoy Beckett as he can, really. Earlier this evening, right after the case was wrapped up, the boys headed out to The Old Haunt, but he stayed behind because he had a little present for Beckett. He's unspooling the scene now, in his head. He went to her desk and handed her the manila envelope. It was worth everything to see her expression when she took out the signed cast photo from _Temptation Lane_, and more than everything to have her confide in him her memories of watching the show with her mom when she was a little girl. It was such a great moment, such a hopeful moment, with her smiling at him and holding the look in his eyes, until her cell phone rang. There was Josh, D-Cubed, all ripped and buff in his T shirt on the screen of her phone. So he got up and left and she called out thanks for the photo and he said "I'll see you" and that was it. And now here he is walking into The Old Haunt, putting on a smile for Esposito and Ryan, while Beckett is somewhere else, taking things off for D-Cubed. Barkeep, make it a Clorox, please, neat.

It's true. Beckett is somewhere else, and she has taken things off, everything off, but not for Josh. She's in the tub in her apartment, ruminating on why she doesn't feel sad, since she just dumped Josh. He had taken it badly. Called her a cheat, accused her of "fucking that pathetic excuse for a writer." She should have slapped him for what he had said about Castle, but for what he had said about her? It pissed her off, and it wasn't true, but what is true is that she's been with Castle in her mind for months. Mentally cheating. She squirms in the soapy water just thinking about it. The tipping point was something so seemingly inconsequential, as tipping points are, but she had always figured that when the end came with Josh it would in a fireball. It was the cast photo that Castle had gotten for her, that he had thought of it and acted on the thought and maybe most important not made fun of her. He had even turned things back on himself, saying that his DVR made hers look like _Masterpiece Theatre_. When she told him about watching the soap with mother, wow, the look in his eyes. It was such a little thing, but he looked as if she had given him the key to her soul. And when Josh called and destroyed the moment, Castle had look so crushed. It had almost crushed her, and so she had made the break. Goodbye, Josh. Hello, Castle. She splashes her feet, scatters bubbles everywhere, sends the water sloshing on to the floor, and she feels light.

She gets up earlier than usual the next morning. Once she's dressed and jolting her cerebrum into action with a strong cup of coffee, she starts thinking hard about how to approach Castle. She's pacing the floor and talking to herself, unfortunately so emphatically that she spills coffee all over her blouse and has to change. There's a silver lining: when she's pulling on a soft, scoop-neck T shirt, she finally knows what to do. Oh, yeah, this should work. This will work. She's humming and dancing and snapping her fingers and all of a sudden she's singing, loud. "You're looking in someone's eyes, you suddenly realize, that this could be the start of something big." And she picks up her coat and her bag and leaves for the precinct.

There's no body drop, and Beckett's able to slip out at lunch to do her errand in a crummy little store near Times Square. She had been mildly concerned when Castle hadn't shown up at the precinct this morning, but since he is king of paperwork avoidance and he knows that she'll call him if there's fresh meat—his term, not hers—she's trying to stay calm. Still, for the last eighteen hours Castle has filled every muon neutrino in her brain. Do brains have muon neutrinos? She's not sure. She should ask Castle, next time she sees him. She can't wait to see him. She texts.

"Slow day. Meet for a drink 5? Sorry I couldn't make it to TOH last night. B"

Since his cell is almost a body part, she assumes that she'll hear something soon. Soon takes minutes, but finally, there's the ping.

"Sure. Where do you guys want to go? C"

Whoa, he thinks that Espo and Ryan will be with her? No way. But maybe that's good, keep him in the dark. She doesn't want to ambush him, but she sure as hell doesn't want anyone else there when she says. When she says what, exactly? Shit. She needs to think about this. No, she doesn't, she'll overthink it. She shakes her head like a wet dog and replies to his text.

"Lowlighters on Chrystie."

She picked it because it's quiet and and they've never been there, at least not together, and it's walking distance from both her place and his, not that she's suggesting to herself that they're going to end up at her place or his. At least not yet.

Castle's a little surprised about that bar, but maybe the guys and Beckett want to try something different. He should shower. He's still in yesterday's shirt.

At four o'clock, Beckett leaves the precinct like a human projectile, and runs for the subway. She wants to be sure to get to the bar before Castle, wants to be seated before he arrives. She exits at Grand Street and walks the few blocks to Lowlighters. Thank God, it's still almost deserted, and there's a small booth in the back where they'll have plenty of privacy. She nurses a beer, destroys a couple of paper coasters, nearly chokes on a peanut, and then there he is, coming through the door. She sees him looking around, so she gets up and walks a few steps towards him.

"Hey, Castle!" She gives a little wave. Does that look stupid, or what? "We're here," she says, gesturing vaguely behind her before she turns back to the booth and slides in. She doesn't have to look at him to know he's surprised. From the corner of her eye, she sees him hanging his coat on a hook.

"Where are the boys?" Castle asks, taking a seat opposite her.

"Oh, they're not coming. It's just us." She clears her throat. "Wanna beer?"

"Yeah, sure." One long, awkward pause later, he has a glass in his hand.

"So," Beckett says. "About last night."

He's puzzled. "Last night?"

"LastnightIbrokeupwithJosh."

"Excuse me, what?"

"LastnightIbrokeupwithJosh." She takes a steadying breath. "Last night I broke up with Josh. That's why I didn't come to the Old Haunt."

"Oh, wow. God, I'm sorry, Beckett." He's trying to look sorry.

"You are? Why?"

"Well, I mean, he's your boyfriend. Did he dump you? What a dick."

She's been so on edge that she can't help it, she explodes with laughter. "He is a dick, but that's not why we broke up. And he didn't dump me, I dumped him." She had been looking at Castle, but now she drops her gaze and her hand to her purse, extracting a paper bag which she puts on the table next to her beer.

Castle doesn't know what to make of this version of Beckett. She looks so relieved, so happy. And now she's tapping her fingers on the back of his hand. What's that about?

"Castle, you don't have to say you're sorry, I know you hated the guy."

He sputters. "What? I, what?"

"You know, you definitely got some of your mother's acting genes, but I'm a detective, and I've detected something about you lately." She's smiling.

Huh? She's detected something? Has she read his mind? Oh, he's in for it. "Really?" he squeaks.

This is the big moment, she thinks. Go for it. "You're jealous." She puts her hand up. "Don't deny it. You're jealous of Josh. That's why I got you this." She shoves the paper bag across the table to him. "Go ahead, open it."

It's hard to get something out of a crumpled paper bag when you're gaping at a drop-dead beautiful woman who's sitting eighteen inches away, and grinning while she tells you that you're jealous of her now ex-boyfriend, but he does. It's a T shirt with DFWUF in big capital letters across the front. They're slanting, almost italic, and they're funnily emphatic. "What's this mean, Beckett?"

"I had it made for you today. DFWUF stands for Don't Fuck With Us, Fellas, as Joan Crawford so memorably said at a board meeting at Pepsi, although she said don't fuck with _me_. I had one made for myself, too, see?" She pulls a smaller version of the shirt from her bag and holds it up. "It's just like yours. And you know what this font is?"

He's clutching his T shirt, and shaking his head, no.

"It's the Jealousy font. So the shirt can remind you not to be jealous, and it can do the same for me if some woman comes along and makes a move on you. Don't Fuck With Us, Fellas."

Castle is still staring at her, hasn't moved except to open and close his mouth a few times. He doesn't want to make the wrong conclusion, especially now, so he asks again. "Um, what's this mean, Beckett?"

"Just a minute," she says, shedding her jacket. She pulls the T shirt on over the one she's already wearing, and gives it a tug. "What do you think, Castle?"

She's really smiling now, a huge smile that takes up her whole face. And he's on the spot again. "I think it looks great, Beckett." Maybe he'll take a tiny risk. "Everything looks great on you. Beautiful on you."

She can see how hard he's struggling, so she extends her leg and runs her foot down his calf. "It means, Castle, that I broke up with Josh because I want to be with you. I didn't have the courage to admit it out loud until now. And unless I've been reading you wrong for a very long time, you want to be with me. Do you?"

He's still mute, but nodding like a bobble head.

"So, you don't have to be jealous of anyone when it comes to me, because I'm yours now." She reaches out to touch the T shirt he's holding. "You gonna put that on?"

He has never gotten out of a jacket this fast. He drags the shirt over his head and looks at her proudly. "There."

"You're wearing it, so does that mean you're mine now?"

How did this all happen so fast? Who cares. And it wasn't so fast, really, they'd been circling each other for ages. "It does, Beckett. I'm yours, you're mine." He swallows, hard. "We're a team, the Don't Fuck With Us, Fellas team."

She puts her hand out to him. "Do we have a team handshake?"

He takes her hand and shakes it. "Oh, we have a lot more than a team handshake, Beckett."

"But not here."

"No, not here. You want to go try out some of that more-than-a-handshake stuff?"

"I thought you'd never ask." She stands up, and he stands up, and they leave the bar. And even though it's snowing, they don't notice that they're carrying their coats. They're just walking together, shoulder to shoulder, holding hands, in their matching shirts.

TBC

**A/N **That's the end of this particular font adventure, but there will be more. Thank you so much for coming along on the ride.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N** This chapter is set a few days before 2x17, "Tick, Tick, Tick…," and is rated K+.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Castle realized it a couple of weeks ago, after he and Beckett showed up at the same undernourishing three-star restaurant. He was with the tedious Bachelorette Number 3 and she with the pin-up-boy firefighter when a development in their case brought the evening to an early and welcome end. Hours later, when they closed the case, he and Beckett went to their favorite diner for real food and real conversation. What dawned on him during their late-night burgerthon was he that he had been following her for almost exactly a year.

He's been thinking about it ever since. His world has completely changed since she came to question him at the launch party for his last Derrick Storm book. It's been the best kind of change because it has happened incrementally, almost without his being aware of it. He knows a lot now that he didn't know on March ninth of last year, but what matters most is this: he can no longer imagine life without her and he wants a whole life with her. He sure as hell isn't going to tell her that, not yet. Maybe March ninth means nothing to her, maybe she doesn't even remember the date, but he's not going to let it go unmarked. Not this year and not, he hopes, ever again. This first time he has to do it in a way that won't send her screaming for the exit yet will give her some idea of the place she occupies in his internal and external life. It has to be small without being inconsequential, silly but meaningful, funny yet serious.

Maybe he had set the bar too high. He loves a challenge, but he's been stumped. Then finally, this afternoon, inspiration had struck at—how singularly appropriate—the espresso maker in the break room. Coffee was their bond, it was their fix, and it was about to be his salvation. He had taken a cup to Beckett, who had mumbled her thanks while applying herself to paperwork from their most last case.

"This should see you through to the dreary end of the day, Beckett. But I must be off."

"Right, off with you, Castle. Don't mind me, chained to this desk like some drudge."

"Well, I am but a lowly unpaid volunteer here. I have to go home to do some work that pays."

"Yeah, pays about a hundred times more than mine. Night, Castle."

"Tomorrow, Detective." If he hadn't been worried about merciless teasing, he would have skipped to the elevator. He almost had, anyway.

He's home now, and he feels like Vasco da Gama or Edmund Hillary or Louis Pasteur, some kind of explorer or adventurer or experimenter about to embark on a legendary journey. Okay, maybe legendary only to him, but that's all he needs. An adventure that is his, his and Beckett's. With one very small first step. He had ordered what he needed an hour ago and it would arrive on Monday, the day before The Day.

The weekend had crawled by and the package had arrived yesterday, as promised. He had examined it carefully. Perfect. He's a tiny bit worried about this evening, since it involves subterfuge, even though it's subterfuge for a good cause. He had told Beckett that he was going to redo Alexis's room for her birthday, new everything, since she was turning sixteen, and he wanted her opinion on things he had chosen. Wanted her to come to the loft so that she could see everything. He had ensured the absence of his mother and daughter by buying them impossible-to-buy tickets for a preview of the new musical _The Addams Family_, so there would be no interruptions. Unless a homicide interrupted them, of course.

He knows it's just a little thing, the thing that's sitting in a 10-inch square box on a tray on his kitchen counter, but it seems huge. It feels enormous. He'd asked her to come by at eight and apparently every clock in the loft, as well as his watch and phone, had unaccountably slowed down. An hour elapses in a hundred and eighty minutes.

Oh, thank God, she's knocking. He checks his hair, smoothes his shirt and opens the door.

"Hey, Beckett. Thanks for coming over."

"Hey, Castle," she says, stepping in and taking off her coat. "I'm happy to help, but I don't know why you didn't just ask Martha."

"You're kidding, right? Have you noticed her color sense? Not to mention you were a teenager a lot more recently than my mother. Uh, before we get started, would you like some coffee? I just made it. Why don't you go sit in the living room and I'll bring it in."

"Sure. You know I can never turn down your million-dollar java." Beckett takes a seat on the sofa, and in seconds he's walking towards her, carrying a large tray. On it are a pot of coffee, spoons, sugar cubes, a bottle of Bushmills single malt Irish whiskey, a bowl of homemade whipped cream, and the box; he sets it down on the coffee table.

"Wow, Castle, what's all this? You celebrating Saint Patrick's Day a little early this year?"

"Nope, celebrating something else." He smiles. "See that box?"

"Uh, yes."

"Want to open it?"

Beckett looks confused. She rarely does, but it's the expression of hers that he most loves. Yes, loves. "Me?"

"Yes, you."

"This is for me, Castle?" she asks, picking up the box gingerly. "You're celebrating something by giving me a present?"

"If you open that, you'll see."

A little embarrassed, she unties the simple ribbon and lifts the flap on the top of the box. Inside are two objects shrouded in layers of bubble wrap, and she lifts them out. One has 1-13, written in black ink, on the wrap; the other, 14-26. Beckett looks up, eyebrows raised.

"Open one through thirteen first," Castle says, trying not to bounce on the sofa.

She unfurls the plastic to find a white bone china mug hand-painted with thirteen names. "Castle?"

"Go ahead, read 'em." He really is bouncing now.

"Harrison Tisdale. Chloe Richardson. Brandon—" Oh, my God, Castle, these are murderers."

"Yup, all the murderers we've caught since I started shadowing you."

She lunges for the other mug, and pulls off the wrapping. "This one goes right up to Bobby Fox, and Danielle, the young woman who killed her best friend. The case we just finished." Her eyes are wide.

"Twenty-six cases solved, twenty-seven murderers. We had a two-fer with that Strangers on a Boat case."

"This is incredible, Castle, but I don't quite know—"

"Why now?"

"Yes, why now?"

"Because today is March ninth, Beckett. One year to the day since we met. And then we nailed that son of a bitch Harrison Tisdale."

"That's amazing, Castle. It's kind of creepy and touching at the same time." She's running her fingers over the thick, smudgy lettering. "Is this a special font? I've never seen lettering like this."

"It's Guilty. It's the Guilty font."

Now her eyes are startlingly wide. "Really? Guilty? Did you have these made? For me?"

"Yup. They're not exactly in stock at Pottery Barn. Now, could you pass me the two mugs, please? I need to make our drinks." He takes them, fills them each with coffee, stirs in sugar, then adds the whiskey and tops each off with a large dollop of whipped cream. "Irish coffee, Beckett. I'm guilty of making us Irish coffee."

She takes a sip and moans. "Oh, my God, Castle, this is sensational."

"You like it?" He raises his mug. "Happy anniversary, Beckett. I mean, the anniversary of our being together. I mean, working together."

"Gotcha, Castle," she says, feeling a little awkward. "Uh, how about a toast?"

"Okay. To nailing the scumbags." He bumps the lip of his mug against hers.

"To fighting crime," Beckett says, after taking a healthy swig.

"To sending 'em up the river!" Clink. Swig.

"To bringing 'em down!" Clink. Swig.

"To vampires!" Clink. Swig.

"To ghosts!" Clink. "Oops, I'm all out Castle. Gonna need some more of this tasty brew."

He refills the mugs. "To Tasers!" Clink. Swig.

"To staying in the car!" Clink. Swig.

"To the CIA!" Clink. Swig.

"I can't drink to the CIA, Castle. They're a bunch of assholes."

"Okay. To fetishes!" Clink. Swig.

"To amnesia!" Clink. Swig. She holds her mug out to him. "Hit me again, Castle."

"Done," he says, refilling her mug, heavy on the Bushmills. "To the fifth bullet!" Clink. Swig.

"To the third man!" Clink. Swig.

Their annunciation is beginning to decline. Words are beginning to slur and blur. "To third base!"

"Huh? Third base? Are you making a pass at me, Castle?"

"No, that was stubble, a stubble, a subtle reference to the baseball homicide we just cracked. Not making a pass. Not yet."

"Are you drunk?"

"No, are you?"

"We might be a little tiddly." She picks up the whiskey bottle. "How full was this when we started?"

"Oh, full. Totally full. I saved it for this. You know what these are, Beckett?"

"What what are?" She's leaning right into him now, her shoulder hard against his.

"Mug shots! These are mug shots!"

"It's nice we have two mugs, Castle. One for you, one for me." She takes a healthy sip.

"I was going to have all the names on one, but the type was too tiny, so I put thirteen on each."

"Yeah, Castle, it's kind of a lucky number for us and an unlucky number for them, right?"

"And I'll get you another mug with the next thirteen, and the thirteen after and after." He drinks some more. And fueled by Irish courage, he takes her hand in his, and raises his mug in the other. "To the best partner I could imagine."

"To the best partner I could imagine."

"I may have had a lot to drink, Beckett, but I mean everything I said. I'm melting, but I'm stone cold sober. To Russian accents!"

"I'm not sorry to say this, either, Castle. To page one oh five!"

He's not going to regret this. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her until he can't kiss her anymore. "To the best year of my life."

She puts her hands over his, to hold him there. "To the best year of mine."

He gives her an indescribable smile. "Yeah?"

And she answers, "Yeah. The best."

TBC

That's it for this font. More ahead, whenever inspiration strikes. Thank you for your support and feedback.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N** This chapter takes place shortly after 2x18, "Boom!," and is rated K.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Castle can't do a thing for her. Not a thing. Oh, he had gotten her father's watch repaired, and he's paying to have all her clothes cleaned—which, given her wardrobe, is a four-figure expense—because no, her insurance will not cover it. But he can't get her apartment back for her; not even his money will do that. He can't restore her sense of home or being safe at home. He can't replace her things because most of the ones that mattered to her are gone, and irreplaceable. Everything is in microscopic fragments. It's ashes, it's dust. When he closes his eyes, he sees himself at her grave, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; he has to keep them open to know that Beckett's alive. Thank God and her cast iron bathtub for that. The bomb didn't get her. The bomb that never would have gone off had he not written his Nikki Heat books.

It's three o'clock in the morning and he can't sleep. He has gone to his office to see if he can write something that isn't haunted and bleak, and while he's sitting with his feet propped up on his desk, his eyes wander to his wall of bookshelves. It's interesting that even with the masses of books he has, it's she who is the better reader. He's amazed at the depth and breadth of her reading, and how she ever finds time. She doesn't show it off, as some people do, but everything she reads becomes part of her. She drinks it in, chews it over, lets it settle, savors it like a good meal.

He's reliving the night before the bombing last week. While she's sleeping and he's standing watch—more like lying watch most of the time, on her exceptionally comfortable sofa—he takes a good, long look at her bookcases. What's remarkable is not just the range there, but the fact that it's immediately clear to him that she has read all the books, some of them many times. They're not decor; they're not for show. Books always tell a lot about their owners, but hers tell more than most. In minutes, he learns volumes—he can't help congratulating himself for that—about her, including the fact that she has a fourth language, Italian. He had known only about her facility in Russian and French. It's mortifying, really: he barely has a second language, and it's elementary pig Latin. He discovers that she likes the works of the metaphysical poets, especially (judging from her notes in the margin) George Herbert. She's interested in the middle ages and Middle-earth, which was something she had hidden from him; she likes trees and chemistry and trains and literature of every century. He remembers looking cautiously around the room and sneaking his phone from his pocket, as if he were about to commit a Class 1 felony, because if she were awake and caught him in the act, she'd kill him. But she's asleep in her bedroom, with the door closed, and he risks it. He takes a whole series of photos of her bookshelves.

Wham! His feet fall hard from his desk to the floor. Sweet Jesus, finally something he can do. Replace her books, especially the ones that clearly mean the most to her. He's sure that many of them are out-of-print. He grabs his phone and sends the photos to his laptop so that he can read all the spines. Some books have jackets, some don't; they're oversized and pocket-sized, hardbound and paperback. He makes a list and starts searches on all the titles that are hard to find. He feels less helpless than he has in days.

Castle has a guy in every field, but the one he most values is his guy at the Strand, a monumental used bookstore near Union Square that boasts of having eighteen miles of books. He's never measured, but he doubts that the claim is false. His guy has ferreted out every kind of obscure book for him, all over the world. By the end of the week, he has managed to get his hands on everything on the list. The last to arrive is the one that Castle had been most anxious to have. He happily parted with $389.17 for it: _Summer at Buckhorn_, a kid's book by Anna Maria Rose Wright. He remembers how worn Beckett's copy was, not just because it was old—he checked the publication date, 1943, and realized that it must have been used when she got it—but because it was evident that she had read it over and over again. It must have occupied a special place in her heart, because it was shelved not with other children's books but with novels for adults. And glued to the endpaper, just before the title page, was a bookplate that said, THIS BOOK BELONGS TO and underneath, in a nine-year-old's careful handwriting, KATHERINE HOUGHTON BECKETT.

The books fill six cartons, and he has stacked them in his bedroom where she won't, unfortunately, see them. She's still staying with them in the loft while she looks for a new place of her own, but she never ventures here. He's moving them to his office now and will give them to her tonight. He hopes that she'll be happy with them, hopes that he hasn't overstepped any bounds.

At 7:30, they've finished dinner. His mother has gone to the theater, Alexis has gone upstairs to do her homework, and he and Beckett have just cleared the table. He opens a cabinet door and turns to her.

"Want some coffee?"

"Yes, please. As if you had to ask."

"Why don't you sit in the living room? I'll bring it in."

She smiles, nods, and heads out.

A few minutes later he walks right by her, carrying two mugs.

"What am I, invisible, Castle? Already forget I'm here?"

"Nope. Just follow me."

"Are you headed for your bedroom? It takes more than a cup of coffee to seduce me."

"Detective Beckett, please! I'm going to my _office_. Where I would like to have you join me. It's a very civilized place." He gives her a deep bow. She snorts, and follows him.

Castle waves a mug in the direction of the leather sofa. "Have a seat, Beckett."

"That's a lot of boxes," she says as she sits down. "You moving or something?"

"Nope, I'm very happy here." He pushes and drags the first set of cartons until they're right in front of her. "These are for you. Once you've found a new place, they'll go with you."

She freezes in place, but looks as if she might bolt. "Castle? What have you done?"

"Not much, Beckett, I promise." He stretches one arm out and rests his hand lightly on her shoulder. "It's the least I can do. It felt like the right thing to do. The appropriate thing. I hope you'll like it. Go ahead, please. Open the box."

She gingerly pushes two fingers under a flap, and pulls it up. She gasps when she sees the contents. She picks up the first book, running her hands over it as if she were greeting an old friend, opening the covers and flipping through a few pages. She does this with eight books before she says something, and when she does he can hardly hear her.

"Castle," she whispers. "How did you know? And there are five more boxes?"

She looks as though she is about to crack. He's never wanted to kiss as much as he does at this moment, but he holds back. "Do you promise not to shoot me?"

Humor almost always works on her. Sometimes it ticks her off, but this time she just looks puzzled. "Shoot you? Why?"

He decides it's not only safe but wise to take the seat next to her, so he does. He'll keep it light. "Remember the night I stayed in your apartment to guard you and you went to sleep?"

"Sure. Yes. Of course."

"I couldn't help looking at your books. It's a genetic urge. The ink draws me." He looks at her. She's still lost. He's going to change tactics, be serious. Because this is serious. "Kate, I was totally knocked out by your books and by what they revealed about you. And I don't know, I just wanted to spend some time with them in my brain. I knew I couldn't possibly remember what they all were, so I took some pictures with my phone. I'm sorry, because I'm sure that you'll think that's an invasion of privacy. But then the explosion, the fire—I couldn't get things back for you. But I remembered the photos, and thought that at least I could replace some of your books, ones you love."

"I can't believe you did that, Castle."

"I'm sorry. Really, I'm so, so sorry. I shouldn't have done it."

She puts her hand on his thigh and looks unwaveringly at him. "No, Castle. I meant, I can't believe you got all these books for me. It must have been so hard to find some of them and you must have spent so much money, and." And she can't say anymore. Not without breaking down.

Castle sees her struggling, and pats her hand before he stands up. "I just remembered I have one more book for you that didn't make it into the cartons. I put it aside." He walks to his desk, opens a drawer, takes out a padded envelope and a small box and carries them to the sofa. "I thought maybe this one meant the most to you, where you had it, what it looked like. Here." He offers her the envelope.

She takes it, but she can't meet his eyes. She peels open the top and when she finds _Summer at Buckhorn _inside looks up and gives him a smile that's worth a hell of a lot more than $389.17. "I thought I'd never get to read this again."

"Look inside."

She opens the book and there, glued to the endpaper, just before the title page, is a bookplate: THIS BOOK BELONGS TO KATHERINE HOUGHTON BECKETT. The typeface looks like a child's careful printing, and the letters, which are not in a straight line, seem to be wriggling.

"It's the Bookworm font, Beckett. You're the biggest bookworm I know. Hottest bookworm, too, if you don't mind my saying so. Or even if you do. I thought you might like a bookplate so here—" he hands her the small box, "are four hundred and ninety-nine more."

Beckett throws her arms around him. He didn't know anyone that thin could be that strong. He can barely breathe.

"This is the most wonderful thing anyone has ever done. I can never repay you for this, Castle. Never."

"Oh," he manages to say. "You just did."

**A/N** Special thanks to reviewer MirandaJayne for letting me know of the Bookworm font. That's the end of this chapter; more will follow as ideas strike. Thank you all so much.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N** This chapter is set during 4x21, "Headhunters," and is rated K+.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Kate Beckett is sitting alone in her apartment at midnight. She's having a drink, and refuses to turn on a light. It's spring, the season of hope, but she feels anything but hopeful. She's haunted, and she wonders if that will ever end. Haunted by the ghost of her mother. By the ghost of Mike Royce. By the ghosts of Dick Coonan and John Raglan and Gary McCallister and Hal Lockwood and Roy Montgomery. But the newest ghost is the one that she's finding most difficult to live with, to struggle against, to put in a corner and ignore. Because this ghost is not a shade, not the the soul of someone departed, but the ghost of something that never quite came to be. The ghost of a possibility, the ghost of what could have been the greatest thing in her life, the ghost of her relationship with Castle. The worst part is that this haunting is all her doing.

She and Castle had been so close, so tantalizingly close to taking the leap, and then. And then. Then everything fell apart, and she had no idea why. None. He walked out of the precinct and virtually out of her life. He reverted, almost overnight, to the pain-in-the-ass playboy of three years ago. A guy who threw money around, who didn't give a crap about anyone's feelings, who ran off to Vegas for the weekend and came back with a dubiously blonde flight attendant with the depth of a birdbath. Whom he squired to a crime scene in his Ferrari and to whom he gave his keys.

Castle was jealous of the Scotland Yard detective who was working on the case with them, despite the fact that he no longer appeared to have any interest in her. When they wrapped it up yesterday, Beckett asked Castle if they could talk. He brushed her off. More than that, he pushed her away. And he went off with the flight attendant whom he described as fun and uncomplicated—the implication being that Beckett was anything but—and she went off with the visiting British detective. Except she didn't. She had a drink with him, wished him well, and sent him on his way. That was it. Now, a full revolution of the Earth later, Castle isn't around and she's sitting in the dark with a Scotch that tastes almost as bitter as she feels. She had been angry at Castle, angry and puzzled and hurt. Until this afternoon, when she suddenly realized why he had turned on her; and with that realization, she turned the anger on herself.

How could she not have known, straight away? Or figured it out, long before now? That he had heard her in the interrogation room a couple of weeks ago, after the bombings. Heard her tell a suspect who claimed he remembered nothing of the blast because he had suffered trauma that she had suffered a trauma, too, had been shot, and remembered every second of it. Why hadn't she suspected something when she came out of the room and found that Castle had left? It wasn't until this afternoon that she had finally pieced everything together, tiny shreds of evidence like scraps from the bomb site, and understood what had happened. How betrayed Castle must have felt, how disappointed, how foolish.

For the last eight hours she has repeatedly called him, texted him, emailed him. He hasn't responded. He won't respond. Still, bleak as she feels, she's not ready to give up. She's going to try something else, something so old-fashioned that he might be intrigued. She's going to write him a letter. If he's holding something in his hand he might be less inclined to dismiss it, unread. It's worth a shot. Her last shot, maybe.

She goes to her desk, turns on the lamp and pulls out some stationery. She hasn't even decided on the salutation—Castle? Dear Castle? Rick?—when she has another idea: she caps her pen, puts away the paper and turns on her computer. She and Castle share a love for and interest in typography and she has downloaded a lot of fonts. It takes her only a moment to hit on the one to use. Will he recognize it? If not, will he care enough to track it down? Should she identify it outright? Of this she is sure: she is not going to spend hours agonizing over every word and phrase and paragraph. That way is tortuous and will result in more torture. She'll say what's in her heart and hope that that will suffice. Here goes. Oh, God.

"Dear Castle,

I love you.

That wasn't the way I had intended to begin. I was going to start by saying how sorry I am, how limitlessly sorry I am, at having lied to you and having hurt you. I know now why you vanished, why you left all traces of the man I have come to know and admire and unreservedly love, on the floor outside the interrogation room where I was talking to Robert Lopez. Where I told him that I had been shot and remembered everything. I told him, outright, no prevarication, but what had I told you? That I didn't remember. Had no recollection of you trying to take a bullet for me at Montgomery's funeral, of you cradling me in the grass, of you crying and telling me that you loved me, asking me to stay with you. And when I told Lopez I remembered, how could you have interpreted that as anything but a demand that you leave me? That I don't love you? When in truth—and please, please, please, please believe me, even though I have no right to beg for it—I love you and I am asking you to stay with me.

When you came to see me in the hospital after the shooting, I really didn't remember. Or didn't believe that you had said you loved me. I couldn't tell then and can't tell now which it was. It was probably a combination of the two. I was in full-blown agony, Castle, physical and emotional. I'm not saying this as an excuse, but to try to help you understand why I've acted as I have. The bullet to my heart was just the last awful link in an unbroken chain of trauma. I had found out that my mentor, the man whom I admired and trusted—who saw when I wouldn't just how good for me you are—had betrayed me in the worst and most devastating way possible. He knew who was responsible for my mother's death and he wouldn't tell me. He died for it. I almost died for it. In those months in my father's cabin afterwards, I worked on getting stronger physically. But at the same time it was, as a favorite song of mine says, "every day a little death." My body was on the way back, but the rest of me was getting worse. I was empty. I was beyond empty. I had nothing. Until I got back to the city, and found something to hang on to that day when we talked on the swings.

What you don't know is that since September I have been seeing a therapist to try to heal my non-physical self. So that I don't run for cover when someone drops a book on the floor, so that I can do more than chase ghosts, so that I can try to be even half what you think I am, so that I can love you without destroying you. So that I can find my way out of the dark. So that I can let go of everything that's bad and grab on to you.

We were so angry with each other during the case last week, and for all the wrong reasons. And things unraveled even faster than they might because I was so jealous of Jacinda and you were jealous of Colin Hunt. There was no need, Castle. He could never be you.

I can't express myself as you can. I could do better in person, if you'll let me, when I can see your face and read your eyes. Have you wondered why I wrote this at the computer instead of by hand? The typed word is usually so soulless. It reveals nothing. But not here. This is not Helvetica or Times New Roman or any of those fonts that are clean and elegant but would expose nothing of my soul. Do you remember when we discovered that we shared a kind of loony obsession for typography? I found this font right after the bombing case. I wanted to tell you about it, but, well, you can guess why I didn't. It's called Dreamer. I hadn't let myself dream for so long, Castle, until I fell in love with you. You made me into a Dreamer. I dream about you all the time. I want you to know that. I keep thinking about two lines in a Langston Hughes poem, "Bring me all of your dreams, you dreamer." I want you to tell me your dreams; I want to tell you mine.

I hope I'm not too late.

Beckett"

She walks to his loft at three in the morning and leaves the letter with the doorman. She feels drained and oddly clean and hopeful.

But a week goes by without him giving any indication that he read or even received her letter. For the past few days he has teamed up with this rabid dog of a detective, Slaughter, and it has been a nightmare for her to watch. She knows she shouldn't interfere, but she does, and thank God. He's awkward with his gratitude. And says nothing about her letter.

She's even more despairing now. She can make no other move—unless she cuts all ties, just asks Castle to leave, since they're both so uncomfortable. Or he's uncomfortable. She's miserable. She's back in the dark. She has a drink, late at night, at home. Probably a mistake. She doesn't care.

She sleeps very badly that night. At one point she thinks she hears someone at the door and reaches for her gun. She's an idiot. Around five she can't stand it any longer and gets out of bed. She stumbles to the kitchen to make some industrial-strength coffee, and when she switches on the light she sees an envelope on the floor. Someone must have slipped it under the door during the night. She stoops to pick it up and sees one word written on it, Beckett, in a familiar hand. It's from Castle.

She sits down on the floor, barely controlling her breathing. She holds the envelope for several minutes before she dares to run her finger under the flap and withdraw the letter. She needs coffee to read this. She needs something even stronger, and maybe she will once she's seen what Castle has to say. For now, she fills a mug and carries it and the letter to the sofa. She can't put this off any longer, but when she unfolds the paper and sees the typeface, she gasps. Each letter looks as if it has been fired from a gun, landing almost haphazardly on the page, with a messy circle behind it. It reminds her of what a window looks like after someone has shot at it.

"Dear Beckett,

I love you.

That wasn't the way I intended to begin, either. I'm following your lead another way by writing this at my computer. The font I'm using has none of the beauty of the one you chose for me. This is BulletHolz, and it's entirely fitting. I've shot everything to hell the last couple of weeks. My rage was as limitless as your apology.

So was my churlishness. I locked your letter, unopened, in my safe until a few hours ago, when I staggered home after Slaughter socked me in the gut. That's when I decided to read it. I figured I might as well take a metaphorical blow to the gut, too—see how I stood up to a one-two punch. I read it while I sat at my desk. I read it again while I stood in the kitchen. I read it once more while pacing in the living room. I read it while l was lying in bed. The last one was what sent me to the computer to write this. The next time I'm in bed I hope you'll be there with me.

I want to talk to you. I want you to talk to me. I'm thinking of some other lines from that same Langston Hughes poem. "Bring me all your heart melodies, that I may wrap them in a blue cloud-cloth, away from the too-rough fingers of the world." I want you to tell me your dreams; I want to tell you mine.

Please open your door. I'm the guy who is waiting out there, holding a blue cloud-cloth.

You're not too late.

Castle"

She opens the door. He's right there. And he comes in. And he stays.

**A/N** Many thanks to reviewer MirandaJayne for alerting me to the Bulletholz font.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N** This chapter takes place a few days after 2x13, "Sucker Punch," and is rated T.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

It's a cold, sleety, depressing Saturday night in New York. Saturday night, the loneliest night of the week. Beckett can hear Frank Sinatra singing that in her head, like some jazzy taunt. The loneliest night of the week. She's got a glass of U'luvka vodka in her hand, and she knows that drinking it on an empty stomach is a bad idea, but what the hell. It was a present from Castle, of course. She won't pay $60 for a bottle of vodka, no matter how good it is. She remembers what he said when he gave it to her a couple of months ago, can still see the untempered delight on his face. "U'luvka is Polish for 'legless,' Beckett, isn't that genius? It's perfect for you because when we all go out after closing a case you're always still standing when the rest of us are totally legless. Plus you have incredible legs." She had glared at him, and wordlessly accepted both the booze and the compliment. Now she's sitting in the dark, and she's drinking alone. No surprise there. Self, meet pity. Oh, you already have.

She wouldn't have to be alone if she'd just stop being such an ass. She used to think Castle was an ass, but she knows better now. Well, he really had been an ass at the beginning, but he's changed. That irritating leer of his has gone. She can see another four-letter L word in his eyes, and she has been resisting it. Trying and succeeding in keeping it out of her own eyes. But what's troubling her now, what sent her to the bottle of vodka, is something else that she has seen in Castle's eyes for the last few days. Sadness. Deep, soul-crushing sadness, with underpinnings of guilt.

He has always been the one to cheer her up. To jolly her along. To make her laugh. He has saved her from herself more times than she has admitted, even silently. He's generous with time, with good humor, with money. He hadn't even flinched over losing $100,000 last week, trying to catch the man who had killed her mother. The man whom she subsequently killed because he was about to kill Castle. The Fuck-Up Trifecta. And now Castle is drowning in guilt and grief because she had killed Dick Coonan in order to save him. She has told him every way she can that he's not at fault, but he can't see it. She's almost sure that he can, but he won't. It's up to her to find a way for him to forgive himself. It's time for her to cheer him up and jolly him along and make him laugh.

Huh. In the self-imposed gloom of her apartment, she jolts upright. Turn on the damn light, Beckett, she thinks, and she does. This is what will get her out of the deep, muddy, soul-sucking ditch into which she has hurled herself: figuring out how to cheer him up. And cheering him up will cheer her up, and make it possible to tell him—. She can't say it out loud. Can't think it out loud. But maybe, at last, she can write it down. She gets a pen and a notepad from her desk and quickly makes a list; it's a monumental list, even though there are only three things on it:

1) Cheer up.

2) Cheer up Castle.

3) Tell him how I feel about him.

Good, the start of a plan. That vodka is going down really well now. She pours herself another. She's idly thinking about what has been going on in the world while she has been moping around, so she turns on her computer and goes to the _Times_ website. Oh my God, look who died. Vincent Musetto, a retired editor at the New York Post. Castle is going to love this—not love that someone died, but that he can relive his all-time favorite tabloid headline. Musetto had written it, 30 years ago: HEADLESS BODY IN TOPLESS BAR. And now the metaphorical light goes on in her head. She remembers that both Martha and Alexis are away, and Castle is home alone. Hold it: he might have some date, some godawful date, there. No, she gives herself a smack. He's really not that guy anymore. The new Beckett is going to go visit the new Castle.

She's got the plan! Home delivery of the Sunday paper is at five tomorrow morning, but the early edition hits the newsstands right about—she checks her watch—now. She's going to run out and get it, and take it to Castle. He'll want to hold the paper in his hand for this. She can already imagine the beginning of his response, and it has driven Frank Sinatra singing "Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week" right out of her brain. "I'm a gadget guy, Beckett, but there's nothing like newsprint for the man who wrote the greatest New York City headline ever. You can smell the ink, right? HEADLESS BODY IN TOPLESS BAR!" And he'll be cheering up, so she'll be cheering up, and she'll bring a bottle of wine and then, well, who knows what kind of cheeriness might follow. She wonders briefly if she has had too much vodka. She also wonders briefly if she should dress in something other than the raggedy jeans and sweater she has on. Should do something with her hair, put on a little makeup. Nah, this is going to be a come-as-you-are party. She pulls on some boots and her coat, grabs her bag and heads out.

Sure enough, the paper has just arrived at the newsstand across the street. She buys a copy and tosses all but the section with obituaries into the recycling bin. No need for the rest of it. Next stop, the liquor store around the corner, where she buys a very high-end bottle of Merlot: the occasion merits it. She hopes the occasion will merit it.

It's pouring now and there are no cabs to be found. She'll have to hoof it to the subway. At least she can keep the paper dry inside the plastic bag with the wine. Once she's in the station she finds a seat on a platform bench that is mercifully wino-free and takes the paper out. She wants to see how the obit looks on page. There's the headline in hmm, News Gothic Bold? Castle will know. She loves fonts, but his love for them is obsessive. Her eye wanders to the top of the page and she gasps. Oh, dear God. Hermann Zapf. Hermann Zapf, maybe the greatest designer of typefaces ever, certainly of modern times. He's one of Castle's idols; she hadn't known that he was still alive. Ninety-six years old? Good for you, Mr. Zapf. His obituary is positioned above the one for Vincent Musetto, and it's huge. Rightly so. He created fonts of every conceivable kind, used on everything from the Vietnam Veterans Memorial to the Abercrombie &amp; Fitch logo. Ah, here's the train. She tucks the _Times_ back in the plastic bag and rides two stops.

Just as she emerges from the station, the rain gets even worse. The hell with it; she runs the three blocks to Castle's. The doorman gives her a smile and a somewhat dubious look as he waves her to the elevator. She tries to shake off some of the rain, but when she knocks on his door something hits her: she's supposed to be cheering him up but suddenly she's what, the Angel of Death? Great timing. Maybe she should just go home. Oh, crap, she's too late, he's opening the door.

"Beckett?" He looks utterly bewildered, standing there in pajama bottoms, an old sweatshirt and a two-day beard. At least she doesn't have to worry about being underdressed.

"Hi, Castle."

"Uh, is there a body?" He turns his head to look back into the loft. "Is my phone off?"

"No, no body. Just me. My body. I mean." She can feel her face redden by the microsecond. She thrusts the plastic bag at him. "Here."

"For me?" He looks even more flummoxed. "Want to come in?"

"Yeah, thanks. Oh, wait," she takes the bag back from him. "I have to get something out of there first." She bends over and extracts the paper, trying not to drip on it, drops it into her purse and hands the bag back to Castle. "Here. Sorry."

He looks closely at her, still befuddled but remembering his manners. "Geez, Beckett, you're drenched. You must be freezing. Let me get you a towel. No, that's not going to be enough. Hold on." He returns the bag. "Be right back." While she stands a few feet inside the door, he races to his bathroom. A minute later he's back with an enormous towel, a pair of sweatpants and a T shirt. "Here. Uh, would you like to change? Not here. I mean, maybe in the bathroom? It's through there. You know, where I, uh, just was."

She tries to think a little more clearly. Even the tiniest bit of clarity would be an improvement. "Yes, great. Okay, well, let's trade." She holds out the plastic bag with the wine.

He blinks a few times. "Right. Oh. Trade." He takes the bag and offers her the small pile of things he's holding.

"Thanks, Castle." She doesn't actually bolt to his bathroom, but moves as fast as she can without looking rude. Or crazy. She closes the door and sinks to the tiles. What the hell is she doing? Don't think, just do. Okay. She stands up, takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. As quickly as she can, she peels off her wet clothes and leaves them on the floor. Uh-oh. Now what? Her bra and panties are too wet and cold too put back on. She'll do without. He won't notice what with her in these baggy sweatpants and a—she unfolds it to get a good look—T shirt. It's gray, with large black letters that spell out JUST MY TYPE*. Near the hem, in much smaller letters but the same font, there's *OPTIMA BOLD. It's hilarious and so Castle. Why has she never seen this shirt before? She rolls over the waistband of the sweatpants and ties it tight. It's when she slips the T shirt over her head that she flashes on just who it was who created Optima Bold: the recently departed Hermann Zapf. Maybe Castle is right about fate, after all.

She bundles all her wet things together and carries them out to the kitchen, where Castle is standing, forlornly, holding the plastic bag. "Castle?"

He jumps. "Oh, Beckett."

She raises her hand that's carrying her wet clothes. "Would you mind if I threw my things in your dryer?"

He stumbles toward her. "Let me. It's right over here."

"No, that's fine," she tries to smile calmly. "I can manage." She tries not to scurry to the dryer, then tosses everything in and gets the machine going. She turns back to him and says, too brightly, "So."

"So?" He's still clutching the bag.

"Um," she nods her head towards the concealed wine. "I brought that for you. Us. You." God almighty, she's definitely had too much vodka. No wonder it's called legless. Her legs are still working, but barely. "Want to open it? Oh, and I have to get my purse. Sorry." She goes to the sofa where she had dropped it, and takes out the newspaper.

In her momentary absence he has not only drawn the bottle from the bag but deployed the corkscrew. "Wow, this is a hell of a Merlot you bought. Outstanding."

"You haven't even tried it yet."

"Don't need to. I'm in love with this wine. Don't drink it often enough. It's very generous of you." He gets two glasses from the cabinet and says, "Want to go in and sit on the sofa?"

"Sure."

Beckett sits down, and he joins her, several inches away. She's thinking that they're as awkward as fourteen-year-olds on a first date. What? Date? Forget it. No. "So, I came over."

"I see," he says, looking a little looser now. "Special occasion that I don't know about?"

"It is," she says, surprisingly suffused with relief. "It's National Cheer Up Richard Castle Day. Sorry I didn't get you a card, but I thought the wine would make up for it."

But instead of looking cheerier, now he looks deflated. And defeated. "Beckett. I know what you're trying to do. I appreciate it, but I have to live with this."

She moves over next to him, and turns so that she's at a right angle to him. She pulls her legs underneath her, her knees almost brushing his thighs. "You don't, actually. You don't know. I'm going to try this once more, the way I should have before, so you'll get it." She stops for a moment, makes sure that he's really looking at her. "_I_ took the shot._ I_ killed Coonan. I'd do it again, a thousand times. We'll get other leads to my mother's murder, but I won't get another you. There's only one you."

"Yeah?"

"You see? There's only one you. And I've got you, right?"

He's looking happier. "Right."

She nudges him with her thigh. "Of course, sometimes I'm grateful that there's only one of you. Should thank your mother for not having had twins. Two would drive me insane." Good, that got a smile out of him. "But here's the thing, Castle. You've been so—so morose, so sad, the last couple of days, and that makes me sad. You're not a down-in-the dumps kind of person. I am. And I feel as though I've dragged you down with me, into some dingy cave."

"I'd be happy to be in a dingy cave with you, Beckett."

"Ah, I can tell you're feeling better."

"Better enough to have some wine. Would you like to join me?"

"Yes, please."

"So," he says, handing her a glass. "You came over just to cheer me up?"

"Well, not just. I mean yes, that was my plan, with the wine, but then I saw an obituary on line and I knew I had to tell you because it would really mean something to you."

"Someone who means something to me died and you wanted to tell me? Way to cheer a guy up, Beckett."

She didn't mean to blurt it out. Must be the vodka talking. "Headless body in topless bar!"

Castle's eyes are huge. "Wait, Vincent Musetto died? I didn't know he was still alive."

"He's not anymore." Oh, God, definitely the vodka. She winces. "Sorry."

Castle squeezes her knee and starts to laugh. "I don't think he'd mind. I think he'd be glad we all remember. Oh, my God. Headless body in topless bar! Greatest headline ever, especially for a murder. I can see that headline now."

Beckett hears her cue. She holds up the paper, folded so that just Musetto's obituary is visible, complete with a photograph of his immortal headline. "Me, too."

Castle takes the paper and quickly reads the article. "I'm glad I didn't see this online. It's so much better reading it in the actual paper. The way everyone did at the time."

"That's why I brought it. I saw it online and then went and got the paper for you because, well, I figured." She smiles a little shyly.

"Whoa, this must be tomorrow's paper, right? You went out in this disgusting weather and got this for me?

"That's what partners do, Castle. Especially when they need cheering up."

"Thank you." Castle picks up his glass and tips it towards Beckett. "To Vincent Musetto."

"To Vincent Musetto," she echoes. She clinks her glass against his, takes a sip, and puts it down on the coffee table. "Uh, and another thing. Death."

"Death? God, Beckett, I was just feeling cheerier."

"No, well, yes. Uh, after I got the paper I saw that there was another, much more important obituary on the same page. Above the fold. It's one of your idols, Castle. And before you get too mopey, he was ninety-six. Wonderful, long life." She passes him the newspaper.

"Hermann Zapf? Oh, my God. The fonts—Palatino, Melior, Aldus, everything."

"Don't forget the Zapf Dingbats."

"Oh, my favorite. Those dingbats! How did we even live without them? The little glyphs in our computers? The phone, the pencil, the clock, the scissors, the pointing fingers, the stars."

She watches him while he reads, sees small smiles, watches crinkles at the corners of his eyes. She picks up her wine glass again and waits for him to finish the obit.

He puts the paper on the coffee table. When he sees that she's holding her glass, he picks his up and touches it to hers. "To Hermann Zapf."

"To Hermann Zapf."

They sit quietly, drinking their wine. He raises the bottle in a silent gesture of "want another?" and she nods. Halfway through that glass, she says. "You know what, Castle?"

"What?"

"I think you're a fonk. Or maybe a geet. A geefonk." She's giggling.

"A geefonk? What is that?" Oh, he loves to see Beckett like this. He almost never has.

"A font geek. You're a geek about fonts."

"I think you might be, too, Beckett."

"Nah, I'm a geefonk in training. Haven't reached your level, Castle." She takes a healthy swig of wine. "Geefonkdom is one of the things I love about you." Holy. Oh, God. She has to stop drinking. She just used the word love in a sentence about Castle. With him sitting right here. With his thigh pressed against her knee. There's a silence that goes one way too long. She doesn't know where to look.

"You love that about me?" He pretends that he's asking it offhandedly. They both know that he isn't.

She's scrambling. She's more than a little nervous. But the third thing on her list was to tell him the truth about how she feels. Still, maybe she can just ease into it. "You know," she says, looking up at him. "I can't believe that you didn't notice the T shirt. You don't think it's a sign from the universe that you gave this one to me to wear, since it's a Hermann Zapf homage?"

He looks right at her, doesn't blink. "I thought you didn't believe in signs from the universe."

"I might be making an exception. Still can't believe that you, of all people, didn't say something about the shirt."

"I was trying not to look."

"You were trying not to look?"

"Very distracting, Beckett."

"Really?"

"Can I ask you something? Something important?"

She's disappointed. She had really thought something was about to happen. "Sure."

"Are you drunk?"

Oh, thank God. He's giving her an out, but it's her opening. "Nope. But I had just enough of your legless vodka before I came over here to make the filter in my brain turn off."

"Yeah?" She has never seen a smile on him like this. Ever.

"So this T shirt is distracting, eh? Why is that?" Her face is about three inches from his.

"No bra, Beckett. Nipples."

"Want me to take the shirt off, Castle?"

"Definitely."

"Okay. But you have to take yours off, too."

"Deal."

**A/N** These two obituaries really did appear on the same day and the same page in _The New York Times_, on June 9, 2015. I sent both men to earlier graves because I wanted to set this chapter in S2 (2009). Thanks to BaltimoreJaxs for suggesting that I write something about Hermann Zapf.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

**A/N **This morning I was challenged to write a part 2 to chapter 15, so of course I took the bait. Yes, there will be a font! This chapter immediately follows the previous one and is rated M.

"Ladies first," Castle says.

"I'm not feeling very ladylike." Beckett giggles again.

"Glad to hear it." He stops himself just before he licks his lips.

"Here goes, Castle, I'm taking off my shirt. Your shirt, actually. I'm taking off your shirt but it's on me so I guess that it's my shirt for right now." She grabs the hem with both hands, pulls the jersey over her head and tosses it somewhere. She has no idea where. On a lamp? The floor? A priceless artifact? Who cares? It's off, and his is about to follow. She looks down at her bare chest and then up at him. "Ta da! What do you think about the nipples? Are they what you imagined when you weren't looking?"

He's gobsmacked. Temporarily aphasiac. There's a half-naked Beckett, sitting right next to him. Voluntarily half-naked and voluntarily next to him. He looks at her nipples with the intensity of a marksman fixing on a bullseye, and finally manages to say, "Better. They're even better than I imagined. Perfect."

"Well, what about the surrounding area? You know, my boobs. What do you think?"

"I think I bypassed death and went straight to paradise." He's still staring.

"Castle, do you see a DO NOT TOUCH sign on me?"

"Um, no?" She leans into him and her nipples brush his sleeve. Shit, if only he'd taken off his shirt already.

"Can I tell you a little secret?" she whispers. "I love your hands. I think you should put them to good use."

"Okay," he whispers back. "Can I tell you a little secret? I love your breasts. I've wanted to get my hands on them for a long, long time."

She gets up on her knees, makes a quarter turn and climbs into his lap, facing him. "They're all yours, handy man."

He doesn't need another invitation, and immediately cups both her breasts. He starts very slowly, stroking them with the gentlest touch. She's watching his hands as they move across her flesh, feathering and teasing and slowly building up pressure. His repertoire of touch is enormous. And suddenly she moans, a deep, reverberant moan that's so erotic it's almost depraved.

"God, Beckett," he says.

"Nipples. Take my nipples." And he does, tweaking them gently at first, then a little harder, then adding a twist before he can't hold off any longer. He begins to knead one breast but takes the other into his mouth. He sucks on it, flicks and runs his tongue over and around the nipple, softly, hard, hard, softly. He switches, taking the other breast into his mouth and beginning to knead the one he had been licking. When he feels another moan building in her, he snaps his head back and blows a stream of air directly on to the areola. Her knees clamp onto him like a vise, and she's rocking wildly against him. He feels a warm, wet spot form near the top of his thigh and her arms are suddenly wrapped around him, pressing his head so closely to her chest that he can hardly breathe. "Jesus, Castle, Jesus." And then there's that indescribable moan again, and she stills against him, gasping.

She's mumbling in his ear now, and he can't quite make out what she's saying. He hopes it's something good. It sounds like "burstoh." Maybe she's speaking in tongues. God, he can't wait to experience her tongue. He pushes himself back a little and tucks her hair behind her ear. Her pupils are blown but she's staring right into his.

" 've heard about that, but didn't believe it," she says. "A breast O. Breast orgasm. You're a magician, Castle, a freaking magician." She takes a deep breath. "I need some wine, right now." He hands her her glass and she has a long drink, never taking her eyes off his. "You going to have some wine, Mister Magic?"

"Oh, yes, definitely yes." He picks up his glass, and mirrors her movements.

"Is this a topless bar you have here?"

"Why, yes. Yes it is," he says.

"Well, we're both drinking, but so far I'm the only one who's topless." Her fingers are plucking at him. "Take your top off, right now. Off, off, off."

In one move he's shirtless, and then she's on him, slowly caressing his muscles—pecs, triceps, biceps—while languorously licking his nipples. She moves slightly, leaning in to suck on one, and simultaneously taking her right hand from his upper arm, pushing it inside his pajamas, and wrapping it around his cock. He jumps, she squeezes. "Castle?"

"Shit, what?"

"I'm rewriting that headline. I want the topless bar, and I want the man, but not headless." She runs her thumb across his tip. "I want both your heads. And I want to get your pants off."

"I want your pants off, too. Stop."

"You want me to stop? That's not what this—" she squeezes again—"is telling me."

"No, stop because I want to move us to the bed."

"Well, if you carry me, I won't have to stop." She moves her legs so they're almost around his waist, and leaves her hand exactly where it was. He gets up from the sofa and, supporting her by putting his hands under her buttocks, race walks to his bedroom.

When they arrive, she slips down so they're both standing. "Pants off," they say in sync. Since neither is wearing underwear, they're naked in seconds, and move onto the bed. Each is craving the other's mouth, and in unspoken agreement they slow their frantic kissing to quarter-speed, a dance that's so sensual that the longer it goes on the faster their hearts are beating. He is inching down her body, and uses one knee to spread her legs wide. His lips are just above her hip when he sees something on her skin. It's very small, less than an inch high. He stops and looks, and looks again.

"Castle, move," she says, squirming under him. "Please, please."

"It's a tattoo," he says, sounding awe-struck.

She stops squirming. She's completely still.

He traces it very tenderly, again and again. "Beckett? Kate? When did you get this?"

"A couple of weeks ago."

"Why? I mean, did something happen that I don't know about?"

She props herself up on her forearms. "Yes, something happened."

He waits, but she doesn't explain. "What happened?"

She looks so morose that he wants to roll back time to a minute ago, and not have to witness this pain of hers. To a minute ago when everything was perfect. "Kyra," she says miserably. "Kyra happened. I was so jealous that I went out and got completely blasted and got that tattoo. Stupid, right?" She throws herself back on the mattress and covers her eyes.

"Why do you think it's stupid? Do you wish you hadn't done it?"

Silence.

"Do you think it's not true?"

Silence.

"I don't." He runs his fingers over it again. "I think it's true. **KB &amp; RC**. You know how long I've waited for that to be true? **KB &amp; RC**? And now it is. And you picked maybe the most beautiful font I've ever seen. Zapf Chancery. How's that for the universe telling us something? We drank a toast to Zapf less than an hour ago and now I find our initials in his gorgeous font on your beautiful hip." He drops his head down and kisses the tattoo. "Can I get the same one? Tomorrow?"

When he hears a faint "yeah" he moves back up the bed so that they're face to face.

"You're not still jealous of Kyra, are you? I mean, how could I have stayed with her? She has absolutely no interest in fonts."

Beckett finally smiles, a big, goofy smile, and wraps her leg around his back. "Good thing you found me, then."

"Good thing."

"Get moving, Castle. I'm done waiting."

"Me, too. You ready?"

"I'm ready, but I don't know if you are. At least, not for this." She flips him onto his back, slides her body over his impressive erection three or four times and then, faster than either one of them could say Hermann Zapf, she sinks down onto him. "Oh, my God, Castle. You feel fantastic."

"So do you, Beckett. So do you." And it surprises neither one of them that they find a perfect rhythm right from the start, every thrust drawing the perfect response, every undulation matched, every electric twitch eliciting an equally electric contraction. When their pace accelerates so that they are nearly out of control, Castle manages to flip Beckett. He uses two fingers to press down where they are joined, and drives himself so deeply into her that she screams his name, and almost rises off the bed. When she convulses around him, it triggers his own violent orgasm, and they collapse into each other.

He starts to roll off when he feels her hand clutching his shoulder. "Stay for a minute," she says, still breathing heavily.

"I'd stay here forever if I thought I wouldn't crush you."

Eventually she lets him go, but he tugs her so that she is draped over him. She rests her chin on his chest and smiles at him. "So, Castle, did it work?"

"I'd say everything worked spectacularly, but what did you mean specifically?"

"Did I manage to cheer you up?"

"I've never been so cheery in my life. What about you?"

"Definitely cheered up. Might have to find a new word for how cheery I feel."

"Gonna get that tattoo tomorrow. And I'm going to look at yours one more time, right now." He slithers down to her hip, and kisses their initials again. And what he thinks, but saves to say sometime in the future, is that Zapf Chancery? Perfect font for their wedding invitation.

**A/N** Thank you to everyone who spends time with these fonts.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N** This chapter, rated T, takes place at some point in the future and features baby Eliot from my story "Womb with a View." So many readers asked me to let him stick around and I confess that I missed him, too.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

It all started when they were lying in bed talking about kids' books that they had loved, and discovered their shared obsession with _Cheaper by the Dozen_.

"Maybe it's because we were both only children," Castle says. "Hmmm."

"Don't get any ideas," Beckett says, poking him in the ribs.

He looks towards the bassinet, which is just a few feet away. "I'm not saying we should have a dozen kids, but look how great the first one is."

_"__Thanks, Dad."_

"He's only fifteen days old. It's a little early to be talking about the next one."

"Okay, but just think how great it would be for Eliot. He'd have someone to play with and learn important things like how to share."

_"__Wait, Dad. I like the playing part, but I'd have to share? I'd have to share everything? Like share Mom? You know what I mean? Because I don't want to share that."_

"Castle, we'll have this discussion another time. A much later time. Anyway, back to _Cheaper by the Dozen_. Remember when their Dad wanted them to learn Morse Code so he painted it—the alphabet, words, sayings—all over the walls and the ceilings? I loved that."

"Yes! Especially that sentence he wrote in code, 'Two maggots were fighting in dead Ernest.' Still cracks me up."

It's true, he's howling, and it suddenly gives Beckett an idea. "Do you know Morse Code?" she asks casually.

"I researched it for a Derek Storm book and I managed to remember enough to use it when Mother and I were trapped in the bank that time, but I'm rusty. Couldn't do it now. What about you?"

"Nope, never." But not for long, she says to herself. Not for long.

Kate Beckett has always excelled at stealth, and over the course of the next three weeks she makes good use of this particular talent. Without Castle realizing it, she masters Morse Code. Right now, since he's out shopping, she's practicing while she breast feeds Eliot. "Listen to this, kiddo. Dot dash. Dash dot dot dot. Dash dot dash dot. Got it? That's ABC."

_"__Isn't it easier to say ABC?"_

"I'm learning this as a surprise for Dad. And then when you're bigger, you can learn it, too."

_"__When I'm bigger, can't I just learn ABC? Dash dot is very confusing."_

When she puts Eliot down for a nap, she begins to put the next part of her plan into action. A few days earlier she had stumbled on the Morse font, and she has secretly made twenty-six small stencils—one for each letter of the dot-and-dash alphabet—in it. She has also been compiling a list of sentences and phrases, and storing them in a file on her laptop. They come to her at odd moments; some are elusive, some loom up through a fog, some arrive in perfect condition.

Sometimes, like yesterday, they spill out of her, unbidden. She had been giving Eliot a bath and blurted out, "Oh, and you're naked."

_"__I know, Mom. It's just like in the old days before I was born. And I'm kind of swimming around, too."_

Castle had been in the doorway and heard her. "What did you say?"

"Nothing. Really." She had had to think fast. And lie. "Just telling the baby how cute he is naked."

Sitting at her computer, she chuckles as she remembers the line, although it was hardly funny at the time. Her apartment had just blown up and she had saved herself by jumping into her cast-iron tub. Castle had come crashing through the door a few moments later and said. "You're alive! Oh, and you're naked." She has about thirty examples like this, things that Castle has said to her, or vice versa, in the years since they met, and now she has to choose seven: one a day for the coming week. She starts running through the list, beginning with one from very early in their working relationship, when he was describing the character he was creating, based on her: "Haunting good looks, really good at her job and kinda slutty." God, it's a miracle she hadn't driven the car off the road, or just strangled him right in the passenger seat. No jury of her peers would have convicted her. And that was even before he'd told her that his detective's name would be Nikki Heat.

She picks her head up at a small noise: it's almost five, Eliot is stirring, and Castle will be back any minute. Okay, she's picked the first sentence, and now it's time to hide the evidence. She shuts down her computer.

They have a lovely, quiet evening. Beckett still nurses Eliot every few hours, so she turns in earlier than she used to. Tonight, she goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. She gets a small bag that she has stashed in a drawer and pulls out the things she'll need. She had done a few practice runs earlier, so she knows exactly how long this will take. First she sprays adhesive on part of the tiled wall above Castle's sink. She quickly lays the first stencil—two dots—on it, and runs over it with a tiny paint roller that she has dipped in powdered chalk. She's exacting but remarkably fast as she stencils on 15 letters, spelling out four words. She stands back to admire her handiwork, then cleans her tools and returns them to the drawer. Finally she brushes her teeth and opens the door.

Castle is sitting up in bed, reading. "All done?"

"Yup, sorry, did you want to go in there?" Butter wouldn't melt in that mouth. She fleetingly wonders if her son will inherit her gift for stealth and, if so, should she be worried? Nah. It's a force for good. Certainly in this case. She pulls down the covers on her side of the bed and climbs in.

"Nope, no problem." He puts down his book and turns to stand up. "I'm just gonna brush my teeth."

She fixes her face in an expression of nonchalance and starts mentally counting. Six seconds.

"Beckett?"

She pretends not to hear.

He comes to the door, toothbrush in hand. "Beckett?"

"Yes?"

"The wall? The writing on the wall?"

"Yes?"

"What is it?"

"Looked like Morse Code to me. Thought you'd recognize it."

"What does it say?"

"Well, I guess you'll have to get out your magic decoder ring and find out, Castle." She can't help it, she snorts and rolls on to her side laughing. There's a wail from the bassinet. "Oops. And while you do that, I have to feed Himself."

_"__Himself? Is that me? I thought everyone agreed that my name is Eliot."_

"Hi, Eliot, are you a hungry boy?"

_"__Good, Mom, now you remember. And yes I am a hungry boy."_

While mother and son sit in the rocking chair, Castle looks up the Morse Code on his phone and starts working out the message.

" 'I might have plans.' Is that what it says? In Morse Code?"

"Yup. Not just in Morse Code, but Morse Code in the Morse font."

"Oh, my God. Hold on." He runs to his office and gets a pad and pen. Sitting on the bed, phone in one hand and pen in the other, he laboriously makes a series of dots and dashes, and passes the pad to her.

"Let's see," she says, cradling the baby in one arm. " 'I married a geek'."

"Whoa, you can read that? Without a decoder ring?"

"Of course. I am fluent in Morse."

_"__It's true, Dad. She's been telling me. It's boring. Please don't start speaking it with her or I won't know what you're talking about."_

"Oh yeah?" he says, walking over to her chair and sitting on the ottoman next to it. "Since when?"

"Since a week or so ago. I taught myself."

"What, you're trying to get a job as a telegraph operator? I don't think there are many anymore. But you also found a Morse font?"

"Yup."

He leans in and kisses her as passionately as he can without disturbing the baby. "I didn't think it was possible to love you more than I already did. Can I ask you something?"

She smiles. "After that kiss? Anything."

"Am I right in assuming that there's a method to this particular madness? That you wrote that for a reason?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to tell me?"

"You are a licensed P.I., Castle, not to mention an NYPD consultant. You can figure it out. Detect it."

"If we weren't both so exhausted, I'd tickle it out of you. I'll figure it out tomorrow."

Except he doesn't. Beckett washes off the first message and chalks up another. " 'Will you be scantily clad?' " Castle asks.

"I will. I hope you will."

"That is a Sphinx-like smile Beckett."

_"__Who's Sphinx? Is that somebody we know?"_

He's still in the dark the next day, and after he reads that night's message—"It's big"—the light still hasn't dawned. "You're torturing me, Beckett. This could kill me."

"Oh, please, look around you. This is not Gitmo."

_"__I heard Mom tell the cab driver we live on Broome Street. We don't live on Gitmo."_

It's the fourth message that rings a bell. Castle traces the same path he has the three previous evenings, only this time he's running, and triumphant. "Aha! 'We can always cuddle'. I got it." He jumps onto the bed. "These are all things we've said to each other, aren't they? I remember all of them now. I have a feeling you're not done."

"Correct," Becket says, yawning noisily.

"C'mon, c'mon, how many more?"

"Three." She's out.

The next afternoon, he sneaks up behind her and whispers, "You can just tell me. You don't have to paint the message on the wall."

She pulls his ear. "You still haven't figured it out, have you? What this is all about."

He groans and collapses onto a chair. "I'm getting soft. My brain isn't working. Haven't been detecting for weeks now, almost three months. Since you started your maternity leave."

"I'll tell you what. I'll put up tonight's message now, so you'll have more time to cogitate."

While Beckett is busy with the chalk, Castle holds Eliot and talks to him.

"We're cuddling. This is cuddling. You'll never get tired of it, trust me. So, Mom talks to you all the time. Did she tell you about this?"

_"__I can't tell you, Dad. I'm not a rat, I'm a baby. Ha!"_

"Castle?" Beckett calls out. "I'm done."

He picks up Eliot and holds him tight against his chest as he walks to the bathroom. "You're not quite six weeks old, so I can't tickle things out of you yet. But just you wait, buddy." He's surprised to see the new message chalked on the shower wall rather than above the sink. He decodes it fairly quickly: " 'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?' "

"So?" Beckett asks, hands on hips.

"I think a lot of things when I'm in the shower. Especially when you're in there with me."

"I think you might be getting warmer."

_"__I'm not getting warmer, Mom. It's kind of chilly in here. Dad says it's something called the fall so it's getting cooler."_

"I think another thing, which is that it's Eliot's bedtime. I'll just put him in his PJs and meet you on the sofa."

Shortly after, they are indeed on the sofa, eating ice cream from the same bowl. "Two more messages," Beckett says, licking her spoon. Making sure Castle sees her licking spoon. "But you'll get the last one in the morning."

"I still can't believe you learned Morse Code. Even more, that you found the Morse font. Is the place important? The fact that you put the messages in our bathroom?"

"Nope." Another sensual lick of the spoon. "Not that I don't love being in the shower with you. Will love being in the shower with you. Soon. But it was entirely practical. I had to be able to wash off the messages. Which is also why I used powdered chalk instead of paint."

"You're so resourceful, Beckett."

"So you've told me." Lick. "Many times." Lick. "And with many connotations."

"Now you're torturing me with that spoon, right? Since I can't ravish you right here on the sofa, much as I'd like to."

"All in good time, Castle." A particularly obscene lick.

"But I'm still not sure what you're up to, you know."

"Good. I like to keep the mystery alive." She puts her spoon down. "But now, I have to go to sleep. Day Six is just hours away."

Throughout Day Six, Castle behaves like a man jonesing Ritalin. He's in perpetual motion. Beckett forces him outside every couple of hours in the (unrealized) hope that he'll run off some steam. Finally, finally, it's sunset, and she can post her penultimate message. Castle follows her into the bathroom.

"Can I watch?"

"No, you may not. It's no surprise if you watch me." She brandishes the little paint roller.

"But I could just see one letter at a time and guess," he whines. "Like on 'Wheel of Fortune'."

She curls her lip. "Do I look like Vanna White to you, Castle?"

"Not at all. You're fifty times better looking than Vanna."

"Flattery will get you nowhere. Actually, it will. It will get you out of this room until I've finished."

He walks dejectedly to the door. "Okay, I can take a hint."

"That was no hint, that was a barely veiled threat." She dusts some chalk off her pants. "Now go out and wait until I'm through."

"I'm going." But he goes only to the other side of the lintel, and hops from one foot to another.

"Done!" she says, and Castle is at her side before the "n" has left her lips.

In seconds, he has it translated. " 'Just stick it in'. Oh, my God, Beckett, you know what this reminds me of? When you were standing on the bomb and we were going over things we'd said and done for years."

"Except this time I don't have to stay still." She moves her face an inch from his. "And I can kiss you." She does. "But I feel as if I'm about to explode." She looks him up and down, and waits two beats. "Don't you?"

He blinks. "Yes. How long is it until Day Seven?"

"So you've figured out my little encoded scheme?"

"I believe I have, Beckett."

She puts a finger on his lips. "Shhh, don't say anything. You'll jinx it."

Her appointment the next morning is at nine. "I got the first one," she says as she throws on a jacket. "With luck, I'll be home by ten fifteen. With Martha."

"Mother?" he squeaks. "You're bringing my mother over."

"Yes," Beckett says innocently. "She's going to take the baby out for a while. Gotta run. Have fun with Eliot."

"Listen, buddy," he says giddily as soon as Beckett has left. "While Mom is out you and I are going to go in the bathroom. You can be in your chair while I take a shower and watch me while I shave, how's that? And then we'll get some things together so you can have a little visit with Grams, okay?"

He's taken aback when he finds that she has already painted the message du jour on the shower wall. One word: "Shameless." It makes him laughs out loud.

_"Why can't I go in the shower with you? You're laughing so hard. It must really be fun in there."_

By ten, Castle has a bag ready for Eliot. At ten past, Beckett and Martha are in the elevator. "I can't thank you enough for taking the baby for a little while, Martha."

"Nonsense, darling. And it's a big moment." She sees Beckett blush. "I actually meant for Eliot. First outing with Grams."

Castle and the baby are at the door to greet them. "Morning, Mother. How are you? Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

"No, thank you. I must be on my way. Have all sorts of things planned and I'm sure you do, too. Is everything ready?"

"Yup, I put the bag with the carriage. There are two bottles of expressed milk and a bunch of diapers and baby wipes and his Peter Rabbit and a soft rattle and three onesies and a sweater and a blanket."

"I feel as if I'm leaving on a polar expedition, not for three hours in the neighborhood. Now hand me my handsome grandson so we can get going. I have to show him off to a lot of people between here and my apartment."

"That's only five blocks away, Martha."

"My point entirely. He'll attract dozens of admirers in five blocks. Bye!"

"Thanks again," they chorus.

The moment the door is shut Castle says, "So? Did you get the all clear?"

She giggles. "I did. Sex, Castle, we can have sex. Which do you want to do first, bed or bath?"

"I'm taking the third option: and beyond."

"Oh, brother," she says, and rewards him with a smooch.

"Nothing brotherly about this, Beckett," he says, trapping her against the wall. "I saw your message. 'Shameless.' Really? Shameless?"

"Oh, God. I hope so."

**A/N** Eliot will also appear in the next chapter, sometime soon.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N** This chapter, rated K+, takes place immediately after 3x19 ("Law &amp; Murder"), and is for Liv Wilder, who loves Season Three.

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

She knows his tells—the little tics, the signals, the fast shuffles, the squints, the diversions, the sleights of hand, the quirks, the changes in timbre—yet he still bamboozled her. He looked her right in the eye as they stood by her desk and said that he had never seen _Forbidden Planet_. "Is that the one with the robot?" he asked, all boyish confusion. And she fell for it.

She actually believed him, the man who has 5,000 movies on DVD. On their ten-minute walk to the theater, he yammered about the snacks she could buy him, wondered which might be "the appropriate palate-pleaser" for the sci-fi classic. He actually said that. Palate-pleaser.

"Maybe they have Mars bars, Beckett!"

A block later: "Or Reese's Pieces? Even though those are specifically from _E.T._ They were supposed to be m&amp;m's but some nitwit at the company wouldn't give Spielberg permission to use them in the movie. Can you believe it?"

Other side of the street: "So, what do you think? Would Reese's Pieces be all right for _Forbidden Planet_?"

Next block: "I wouldn't want to alienate you by choosing the wrong candy."

God help her, she laughed at that joke.

They got a tub of popcorn, a bag of m&amp;m's ("an homage to Spielberg") and a box of Starbursts ("Close enough, Beckett. Do any stars actually burst in this movie?") and settled in. She realized later that she should have been suspicious during the opening titles, when the term "ELECTRONIC TONALITIES" loomed up. If he hadn't seen the movie before, he'd have felt compelled to made some kind of comment. The real tip-off, though, was when the spaceship landed and one of the crew said, "Look at the color of that sky!" A split second before the on-screen reply came, she heard him mumble, very quietly, over the crunch of his popcorn, "Yeah, but I'll still take blue." If she hadn't known the the dialogue so well, she wouldn't have been aware of him. Son of a bitch, she thought right then. I'm going to get you for this.

Afterwards, they spent the entire time over burgers at Remy's discussing the minutiae of the movie. He must have seen it way more often than she, yet he had not only all the enthusiasm but all the questions of someone for whom it was brand-new. It was amazing. Kind of adorable, really, much as she hated to admit it.

There is no new case this morning, the morning after, which means that Castle stays at home and she can use the odd moment to plot her revenge. The idea comes to her as she makes her second cappuccino in the break room. She goes back to her desk, does a quick search of some fonts, and smiles to herself. She glances over at Espo and Ryan and is relieved to find them engrossed in a game of Wastepaper Basketball and paying no attention to her. She slips her phone out of her bag, composes a note, and emails it to her personal account. Having done that, she applies herself to her paperwork so that she can get out and go.

The moment she's home she sits at her laptop, downloads the font and clicks on her email note. After making a few small changes and additions, she types up the final version:

"Dear Castle,

You flimflammed me. Led me down the celluloid path. Conned me.

I freely acknowledge my gullibility.

Nonetheless: the penalty for lying to an officer of the law is not insignificant. The only reason I will show you any kind of mercy is because you have proven to be quite helpful to me in the pursuit of solving cases. In other words, you owe me, buster.

Although I was initially unaware of your false statement, during our interplanetary mission I realized that you had deceived me. That you were, in fact, on intimate terms with every frame of the movie in question. All 141,120 of them. Yes, I counted. I'd like to fine you a dollar for each one, but as I said, I'm showing you some mercy.

Your punishment is this: you will treat me to a movie of my choice as well as to anything I like at the concession stand. You will also buy me dinner at a restaurant of my choosing. Be advised that it will have a more sophisticated menu than Remy's.

No longer fooled,

Beckett"

She loves the font. It's funny looking, like something a kid would make with pasta, a glue stick and construction paper. And the name—to continue the food metaphor—is the icing on the cake.

She can't decide whether to send this to him digitally, right now, or send a hard copy by snail mail. After half a glass of wine, she opts for the latter. Let him think he's pulled one over on her for a while longer. She prints outs a copy and slides it into a manila envelope so that she doesn't have to fold the paper. She'll mail it on her morning run, when she passes a letterbox that has a 6 a.m. pickup.

Two days go by without a new case, and Castle continues to stay at home, writing. This does not prevent him from texting her hourly, frequently with a new insight into _Forbidden Planet_. She praises his perspicacity just often enough to boost his ego without making him suspicious. The last text she sends before going to bed is, "You know, we should see this again. I'd bet you'll get even more out of it on a second viewing." She hasn't set the phone down before she sees the bubbles that flag an incoming text. "It's a date!" She snorts, and turns off the light.

At 10:15 the next morning, he pops out of the precinct elevator, manila envelope in one hand and two cups of coffee in the other, and goes to her desk.

"Morning, Castle," she says, plucking one of the coffees from its cardboard perch.

"Uh, morning, Beckett," he answers, plopping himself down in his chair and flourishing the envelope. "I got your note."

"I see," she says. "What I don't see is any remorse. No, 'Sorry I lied, Beckett.' No acceding to the terms laid out."

He looks at her just as directly as he had three days earlier. "Guilty as charged, Detective."

"So you agree with the terms, then, or are you appealing?"

"Oh, I'm always appealing, Beckett."

"Oh, please," she says, and rewards him with a particularly dramatic roll of the eyes.

"But I'm not appealing my fine. I will happily pay up. I can't wait to pay up."

She takes another sip of coffee, as if she's turning something over in her mind, then puts down the cup and licks her lips, unnecessarily. "_Descendants_."

"I'm sorry, what?" He is distracted by the lip-licking.

"_The Descendants_. You're taking me to _The Descendants_. The new George Clooney movie. Tomorrow night. It's playing at the AMC at Sixty-eighth and Broadway. We can walk down to Jean-Georges from there."

"Three-star French, superb choice, Beckett." He takes his phone from his pocket; checks something; dashes off a text; waits a minute for a reply, humming, and then nods when he gets the response. "See you tomorrow," he says, standing up and smiling widely. "I'll pick you up at six-thirty." And he walks away.

"Bye, guys," he calls to Espo and Ryan as the elevator swallows him.

Dammit, he's deliberately throwing her off her game. He hadn't say a thing about the font and she hadn't had the chance to poke him about it. Never mind. Two can play at the game, she thinks, and smiles every bit as widely as he had a moment ago.

That evening and throughout the following day, she prays to every deity she can think of in all the great and lesser religions of the world that no body drops until her shift is over. Saint Jude—or someone in the Department of Good Karma—rewards her, and at four o'clock she grabs her coat and exits the precinct.

She's home at 4:15. Knowing that Castle will be scrupulously punctual, though he lacks scruples in some other areas, she had laid out her clothes in the morning. Showering, shampooing, drying her hair and doing her makeup occupy her until 5:15. She sits in the living room, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe and having a small glass of wine, waiting an hour before she puts on her dress and shoes. She looks at the hot pink dress that's hanging in the doorway of her bedroom. She had bought it in a fit of something-or-other over the summer. It had nearly stripped her checking account bare—and it left plenty of her bare, cut in a dangerously deep V in both front and back, and exposing a great deal of her right thigh. She has never worn it outside the fitting room of the store. At 6:15 she slips it over her head, puts on some earrings and a bracelet, but foregoes a necklace. She wants Castle to have an uninterrupted view, so to speak. When the door bell rings, she steps into a pair four-inch heels, grabs an evening bag and her coat, and opens the door. He's wearing a silvery-gray shirt, a charcoal gray suit, and a shell-shocked expression.

"Evening, Castle," she says perkily. "Ready to go?"

"Uh. Uh." If eyes could drool, his would be slobbering.

She closes the door behind her, and locks it. "Castle?"

"Uh, yes?"

"Could you move a little? I'm kind of trapped here."

"What? Trapped? Oh, trapped. Oh, sorry, trapped. I'm moving." He takes two steps backwards and is about to topple over when she grabs his wrist and steadies him.

"You all right, partner?"

"Yup. Yes, never better. Yes. Never." He's still gawping. "You look sensational."

"Thank you," she says. "You look very handsome in that suit. Aren't we well-dressed for a couple of moviegoers?"

He nods, and eventually manages to say, "Oh, we are."

When they arrive at the theater, after a cab ride of mostly stunned silence on his part and small talk on hers, the only thing she wants from the concession stand is bottled water. "Wish they had a liquor license," he mutters, not so quietly that she can't hear him.

Beckett had been looking forward to this movie for months, ever since she had seen a trailer for it at some crummy summer thriller. But sitting inches away from Castle is making it hard to concentrate. He's radiating heat of all kinds. She keeps thinking about why he had claimed that he'd never seen _Forbidden Planet_, and it occurs to her, in a belated Eureka! moment, that he just wanted to go to the movies with her. He had asked her if she had plans with Josh, and she had said no, that Josh was on shift, which was true, but there was more. He was at the hospital, true, but they were no longer together. She had broken up with him a week earlier, undramatically. She knew he wasn't the one, and she was getting nothing out of the little time they cobbled together. The hard fact was, he was boring. Incredibly boring. As opposed to the man who is sitting in the red plush seat to her right, and very close to her very exposed thigh, who is anything but boring.

She's only faintly aware of George Clooney standing in the Hawaiian sun, multiple times larger than life, while she thinks about the moment in the precinct when she had told Castle that she was going to _Forbidden Planet_. He saw how excited she was about it, and wanted to share it with her. Simple as that. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. She turns her head a fraction to sneak a look at him, and sees that he is doing the same thing to her.

"Castle?" she whispers.

"Beckett," he whispers, their voices overlapping.

She leans over the arm of the seat. "Want to get a drink?"

"Yes. God, yes," he says, jumping to his feet.

They stumble and crawl over the four people between them and the aisle, murmuring "Sorry, sorry," as they do. Quite unconsciously, she takes his hand as they race walk up the aisle into the corridor, down the escalator and out into the street.

"There's a cab!" Castle says, grabbing the handle and ushering her in. "Short ride, driver," he adds, as he slides in beside Beckett, "just Sixtieth and Broadway, please."

They're both a little short of breath. "Castle," she says, "our reservation isn't for ages."

"The bar. We'll sit at the bar."

"Right, okay." She thinks about tugging her dress down a little, but abandons the idea. What the hell, they're almost there. Maybe in more than one way. She blushes, grateful for the dark interior of the cab.

As soon as the cab stops, Castle shoves a bill through the plastic slot, opens the door, and pulls Beckett out with him.

"Sir!" the driver shouts. "You don't have something smaller? I can't change a hundred."

"Don't need to. It's yours," Castle says over his shoulder as he and Beckett head across the street to the restaurant that looks onto Central Park.

"You gave him a ninety-five dollar tip?" Beckett asks in astonishment, after they're safely across Broadway.

"You're worth it," he says with a shrug and lets her precede him through the door.

Once they're seated at the bar, drinks in hand, she decides to jump in. She's tired of waiting, and she hasn't even been waiting long. She's pretty sure he's been waiting longer. "Can I ask you something, Castle?" Her voice is soft.

"Sure."

"Why did you lie to me about _Forbidden Planet_?"

"I'll tell you, but could I ask you one quick thing first?"

"Hmm. Okay. Shoot."

"When did you know?"

"When you quoted the line about the sky before the actor did."

"You heard me?"

"Yup."

"Well no wonder you figured it out."

"Not really. I'd have gotten it on my own, eventually. You know, you didn't make any comment on the electronic tonalities credit, and there's just no way you'd have restrained yourself if that were new to you." She sips her wine. "I've answered your question, now you answer mine."

"Are you going to make fun of me when I tell you?"

"No!" She looks down, and then up into his eyes. "Why would I do that?"

He swallows. "I wanted to go with you. I just really wanted to go with you. I love that movie and I love—" He stops short. "I love that you love it, too. I didn't know that about you, and then you mentioned it and your whole face was so happy. I wish you could have seen your expression, like you were going to show me another world."

"But why did you say you'd never seen it? Doesn't make any sense."

"I was afraid you wouldn't want me to go with you."

"What?" She looks taken aback. "Why?"

"I dunno. Maybe that you'd think I was being pushy. I'd be talking all the time."

She laughs. "Well, wouldn't that be a first!"

He's quiet for a moment. "But it was fun, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," she says, suddenly out of words.

"So, uh, this movie? What did you think?"

She's never been this forthright in her life, but it seems perfect. "Couldn't say. My mind was elsewhere."

"Oh, yeah?" He's completely happy. Smitten. "Any place I know?"

"I think so. Same place yours was, I bet."

And just as suddenly as he'd felt elated, the air went out of the room. This didn't feel like flirting, this felt like the real deal. But she's with Josh, so what the hell is going on? "Beckett?" He looks alarmed. And crushed.

Just as suddenly, she understands why he is miserable. She puts her hand on top of his. "Castle? You worried about Josh? Because he's old news."

"He is?"

"We broke up. The man nearly bored me to death."

"Oh." A long pause, followed by a question that tumbles out. "I'm not boring, am I?"

"No, Castle," she laughs again and puts her forehead on his shoulder. "That's one thing I'd never accuse you of. Ever." She straightens up. "Hey."

"Hey what?"

"How come you never asked me about that font?"

"In your letter?"

"Of course in my letter, you doof."

"I'm embarrassed to say that I, Emperor of Fonts, have not been able to identify it. I was about to go to my font guy—"

"You have a font guy? Jesus. Why I am surprised."

"Yeah, I didn't want to ask you. Guess I will now, though. Seems important to you. Besides, it's so weird looking. A lot of the letters remind me of that pasta that look like, you know, wagon wheels."

"Rotelle. Exactly!"

"So what is it?"

"How dumb was I?"

"Dumb about what?"

"No, that's the name of the font. How Dumb Was I? It's the How Dumb Was I? font."

"Seriously? That's genius."

"I chose it because I felt dumb not to have known right off that you were fibbing. But I also wanted to let you know how dumb you were to think that you'd gotten away with it."

The bartender leans in slightly. "Excuse me, sir, your table is ready, if you'd like to go?"

"Thank you," Castle says. "Beckett?" he asks, offering his arm.

She takes it, and squeezes.

When they're settled in at their table, he beams at her. "You hungry?"

She looks him up and down. "You have no idea."

That stops him dead. His eyes are as wide as she's ever seen them. "Really?"

"Oh, yeah." They're in a shadowed corner, and she moves just enough so that she can kiss him hard on the mouth, then sits back and rubs a thumb over his lips. "But I think I might be ordering off the menu."

**A/N** I hadn't written a font chapter in months, and this seemed like a good time for a little fun.


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

**A/N** This is the second half of a two-shot that takes place in 2018 and is rated T. It's not necessary to read the first part—chapter 3 of "Hi. It's Eliot Again"—to understand this, but it couldn't hurt.

Kate Beckett is reading her son's letter to Santa Claus, the one her husband, Rick Castle, has just typed up and printed out. "You know, Castle," she says, "everything on this list is so, so—"

"Little?" he offers, propped up next to her against the headboard of their bed.

"I guess. I was thinking simple, sweet, unextravagant. Like this." She points to the first three items on the list. "He wants bedroom slippers that look like penguins. A soft blanket for Scrapple. And some pencils that say HI. I'M ELIOT. Where did he get that idea, anyway?"

Castle beams at the memory. "Didn't I tell you? We went to this cool store last week that sells nothing but pencils, every kind from all over the world. I'll go tomorrow to get those for him. They emboss them on the spot with a hand-operated machine that weighs a ton. We watched them impress some for a customer and Eliot wanted to take it apart to see how it works. You'll be happy to know I restrained him."

"I'll be even happier if you can restrain him on the drum request. I really can't cope with that yet. How about some other musical instrument, like a recorder?"

Castle makes a face. "Totally lame. Santa is not giving him a recorder."

"Fine," she sniffs. "We're starting him on piano lessons in the spring anyway. Let's just ignore the drum thing. What he really has his heart set on is these blocks. But I looked on line and everything with only letters is just so ordinary. Uninteresting. I want these blocks to be astonishing. Something he'll love, something dazzling."

Her bedmate is unusually silent.

She waits a minute, stealing a look at him. "Castle?" Still silent. "Oh. Oh." She reaches out and puts the letter on her nightstand, then takes his chin in her hand and turns his face towards hers. "You have a plan for the blocks, don't you? I can hear those synapses firing, Castle."

He smiles. "You can, huh?"

"I can feel them, too."

"Hot, aren't they?"

"Oh, very."

His hand begins creeping under her sleep shirt. "So," he says, drawing out the o until his breath is gone. "You want to put some sin in those synapses?"

"Definitely," she says, sliding slowly down, lifting the covers as she goes.

"Why, Beckett," he says in mock surprise. "Wherever are you going?"

"To check out the synapses," she says sultrily, just before she disappears beneath the sheets, "in your other head."

"Oh," he says, twitching suddenly. "Such sophisticated, uh, sophisticated, uh, wordplay."

Her voice is muffled but completely audible. "Words are not what I'm playing with here, Castle."

"Oh, good. Oh, God."

The next morning at 6:30, murmuring from the baby monitor wakes Beckett. She starts to roll over to get out of bed when a well-muscled arm pulls her back. "Don't go," Castle whispers.

"Twins, Castle," she says.

"They're not crying. Stay here."

"Mmmpf." She makes a vague attempt to leave.

"I'll make it worth your while."

This time she rolls the other direction, directly on top of him. "Now you're talkin'," she says, quite intentionally wiggling as she does.

"You want me to talk?"

"No, but I do want you to use your mouth."

"Consider it done," he says, flips her over and quickly begins to use it in ways that leave her speechless if not at all silent.

At 8:00, with Abby and Otis secure in their high chairs, more or less ingesting Cheerios, and Beckett swooning over her first cup of coffee, Castle, Eliot and Scrapple burst through the front door. "Bagels, Mom!" Eliot says, running over to hand her a bag.

"Oh, yummy," she says, giving him a hug. "Thank you. Let me guess, we're going to have bagels for breakfast?"

"I already ate," Castle says, his eyes twinkling.

"You ate?" Eliot says, surprised.

"Dad's just kidding, sweetheart," his mother says, shooting a near death glare to Castle. "Now let him help you take your jacket off, and then come back and sit down for breakfast. This is a special day, did you know?"

"Why?"

"Because Alexis and Gram are taking you and the twins out. You're going to the zoo and then to Rockefeller Center, you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because every year a family who lives in the country and has lots of trees gives a beautiful big one to Rockefeller Center to have for its Christmas tree. It's almost as tall as our building!"

"Tree there?"

"Yes, the tree is there. A long, long truck carried it over night, and it came through the tunnel and then up the street to Rockefeller Center. And you're going to see people pull it up straight and then put boards around it so it can get decorated."

"Why?"

"Why are they decorating it?"

"No. Board. Why board?"

"Oh, they have to put boards around it for people to stand on when they decorate it with lots and lots of lights, thousands of lights. The ladder isn't tall enough for that, so they put rows of boards all the way around tree for the workers. That's going to be a lot of fun for you to watch."

"I no bored with board. Ha!" Eliot exults.

Castle cracks up before Beckett does. "That's a great, great joke, Eliot."

Martha and Alexis arrive shortly after breakfast, and in a whirl of red hair gather up the three children, and set off. "Have fun, kids," Martha says, poking her head back in the door and waving at her son and daughter-in-law.

"You've got the kids, Mother."

"Not what I meant, Richard. Toodle-oo."

"Right."

"Thanks!" Beckett calls out on top of a snort.

"Want to take a shower?" Castle asks. He's wiggling his eyebrows, but she's engrossed in the paper so the gesture is lost on her.

"Already had one."

"Not with me you didn't."

"Oh," she says, looking up and smiling. "That kind of shower. My favorite kind. Okay, you're on, but then we really have to discuss these blocks for Eliot."

"Absolutely. Could take a while, though."

"The discussion or finding the blocks?"

"Neither of the above," he says, pulling her off the sofa and kissing her. "The shower."

Twice showered—thrice, on her part—and warmly dressed, they're cuddled on the loveseat in the office. "Blocks, Castle."

"You know Beckett, maybe we shouldn't be discussing blocks in the room where I write. Could affect the atmosphere. Don't want the word 'block' to hover over my laptop, give it ideas."

"I thought I gave you ideas," she says, poking him in the ribs.

"Oh, you do, you do. All kinds of ideas."

"Good. And right now we need all kinds of ideas for Eliot's blocks."

"I already have them," he says, with a certain amount of smugness. "They're perfect."

"Just when did you get these perfect ideas?" There's some challenge in her tone. "And how?"

"You know last night in bed? When you asked me if I had a plan for the blocks? Synapses?"

"Yes, Castle, I have excellent memory, short-term and long-term, and I recall every bit of that conversation. And its ancillary activities, to use your coruscating word from slightly earlier in that discussion. And actually those activities were a lot more than ancillary."

He chuckles. "True. Well, I had the beginning of the idea. One of our favorite words, really."

"Yeah?" She puts her head back and looks at him. "What?"

"Fonts."

"Fonts!" She sat up. "Of course! Mr. Sturgess. Water Street.[First appeared in chapter 5] The font guy. That's brilliant, Castle."

"Thank you, but I have to give credit to you, in part."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you. All I had at the time was the idea of talking to Tom Sturgess about who could make us some blocks in a nice fonts, but it was your inspirational undercover work that really got me thinking."

"You were thinking about fonts while we were having sex? Jesus, Castle, what—"

"Calm down, calm down. Not then, _afterwards_. You fell asleep—"

"Excuse me, you fell asleep. I was hoping for more."

"I admit I fell asleep. But when I woke up at 1:30 you were out cold. And since I was all revved up with nowhere to go—"

"Castle!"

"Since I was all revved up with nowhere to go, I got out of bed and came in here and started doing some research on fonts. I left the door open and I kept looking at you curled up all adorably in our little love nest."

"Oh, please."

"I did! Seriously. Anyway, here's what I came up with. We get five sets of blocks, each in a different font, made by one of Sturgess's guys. Actually fifteen sets, because we should have three complete alphabets in each font. One set in the Beckett font, one in Castle—they have a certain resemblance as you know, actually very complementary, like us. Anyway, another set in GoodDog—"

She jumps up, grabs his laptop and returns to the love seat. "I have to see what GoodDog looks like."

"Click on that folder, EB-C Blocks, and you'll see."

She does. "Oh, Castle, this is adorable. It looks kind of like a ten-year-old's printing."

"Believe it or not, there's a font called Doggy with the whole alphabet done in the shape of dachshunds, but it's just too hard to read. So we won't tell him about it."

"What else?"

"Click on the Manhattan font in the folder. Isn't that great?"

"Wait, I know this, this is from the old Woody Allen movie _Manhattan, _right? With skyscrapers forming part of some letters, and little windows. I love this. So will Eliot."

"Speaking of Eliot, that's my favorite, if you'll forgive my saying so."

"An Eliot font?"

"The Eliot font isn't spelled the right way, so I had another idea. Our handwriting, yours and mine. Thirteen of the blocks will have capital letters in your writing, and thirteen will be in mine. Won't that be great?"

"It will. It's fantastic, Castle. All of it. You're a genius." She leans in to kiss him. "But do you think they can do that in time? It's a really big, complicated order."

"You're kidding, right? That's exactly what our money's for, to pay someone to make that for our kid in a month." He pulls his phone out of his pocket. "I'm going to call Sturgess right now."

She gets the phone away from him before he has the chance. "That can wait, don't you think? Since for once no one else is here?"

"Oh, now that you mention it, yes. It could wait a bit."

"You know, Santa" she says, walking her fingers up his chest, "I've been a very good girl this year."

"Oh, you have. You have, Kate. An amazingly good girl this year."

"Do you think that deserves some kind of…reward?"

"I do, I do. Why don't you come with me into the next room? It's my workshop. I think you'll like it."

"Oh, I'm sure I will, Santa. I already love your toys."


End file.
